


Here, There and Everywhere

by 221Btls



Series: All My Loving [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, Happy Ending, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:09:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 42,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls/pseuds/221Btls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes allowed himself to fall in love with John Watson, but to learn to trust him, completely…that's not always easy.  </p><p> </p><p>Each part of the series can stand alone as its own story, but Part II builds on Part I.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Interrupted

**Author's Note:**

> Here, There and Everywhere is from the Beatles Revolver album.

The blast was like nothing any of them had ever heard before.  True, the few in attendance who had served in the war had heard bombs explode, but those blasts had been out in the desert where large holes were created in the earth’s floor, and, tragically, soldiers had been killed.  For the most part normal civilization had been spared. 

This blast was frightening in its difference.  This one took place in the heart of the city, a city that was not the part of any war zone.

In no more than a split second after the first explosion occurred, the screaming began.  The screams of fear from the wedding guests who feared for their lives.  With good cause. 

* * *

 

“We should never have told my brother what we were going to do.  I should have known he would make it into a political soirée, use it as a means to assure his standing in the government into the next century…and the next after that.”  Sherlock fumed as he paced the small dayroom just yards away from the expectant guests, his long legs helping him to span the room in just a few strides.  “Oh, just a few important business guests,” he mimicked his brother’s droll tone, rolling his eyes.  “I should have known better than to let him pay for our ceremony and honeymoon as his gift, now he thinks he owns our day.  OUR day!”  Sherlock was practically shouting. 

It was supposed to have been a simple affair, a few close friends, several family members, including the-only-heard-of-yet-never-seen-by-John-until-now Mummy, but somewhere along the way their wedding day had gotten out of hand.  Both John and Sherlock detested the circus it had become, but there was nothing to be done about it, the ceremony would begin in a few minutes.  They were about to pledge their love and lives to each other in front of 253 of Britain’s most influential citizens…and about 10 people that truly mattered to them. 

So much for a quiet ceremony.

It was mostly Mycroft’s fault.  “We must add the Minister of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food to the guest list, he was very instrumental to the success of the Beijing affair,” he had declared, in an air that said he would brook no argument. 

“Necessary” guest after necessary guest was added to the list until the original intimate wedding venue became insufficient and they had had to secure Wickham Hall, est. 1823.  Capacity 275. 

John, reasonable, patient John, had just about had enough.  He wasn’t any happier than Sherlock about the bloated production the day had become, but he still had managed to avoid having a temper tantrum, unlike a certain consulting detective he knew.  Enough was enough, they were about to walk out in front of everyone and he needed Sherlock to be on his best behavior. 

John moved to Sherlock’s side and put his hand on Sherlock’s arm, “Calm down, love, we…”

“DON’T “calm down, love”, ME!” Surely, Sherlock’s bellow would carry outside; John almost cringed as he envisioned the crowd of people straining to hear what was being said, whispering to each other, wondering what “the nice young doctor” was getting himself into.  (“That younger Holmes boy is _such_ a handful.”)

John took a decided step back from the raging man and stood at his full height, doing his best to stare down the man that was a full 6 inches taller than him.  He wasn’t afraid of Sherlock, he knew a hand would never be raised to hurt him, but he needed to get his attention.  Fast.  He felt it was his fault that Sherlock was so agitated.  He should have put his foot down with Mycroft and insisted they keep the ceremony a manageable size; at best, Sherlock was uncomfortable in a small group of people, a large one like this had “disaster” written all over it.

Out of the corner of his eye Sherlock caught the movement, watched John step back, saw the uncompromising set to his face.  He turned his head to get a full view of John.  Unfortunately, Sherlock had seen that face more often than he would have liked in the time since he had met John.  The face that said with no equivocation, “Enough now”.  Sherlock had had enough experience with _that_ face to know that, though John would always take him as he was, sometimes he was just a little _too much_.  As he clearly was now.

And on this day, of all days. 

The stubborn two year old in him wanted to continue expressing his discontent any way he well pleased.  The grown man in him, the one that had come to care more about the shorter man standing in front of him than he had ever allowed  himself to care about anyone, ceded to the obvious demand he saw carved in the face that was quickly resembling stone. 

Sherlock inhaled deeply, once, twice, calming himself down, and took the single step it required to reach John.  Why this most perfect specimen had agreed to living a lifetime with him, he had no idea.  All he knew was that he needed to remember to be grateful for it, to try to show John, in ways that the doctor could understand, how important he was to him.  How much he loved him.  Yes, loved, him.

John sagged ever so slightly in relief as he saw that Sherlock recognized he had gone too far and took action to backtrack; they could now enjoy their day.  Or at least tolerate it. 

With large hands that belied the grace they were capable of, cupping John’s face, Sherlock stared at his eyes.  It wasn’t the expression in them that mesmerized Sherlock, but the flecks of a thousand shades of blue dancing in the irises, the pupils that that could tell him just what John’s emotional temperature was at any given moment.  Right now, as he saw those eyes soften, they told him that John was happy.  As happy as he had ever seen him. 

Sherlock never ceased to be intrigued by the fact that by merely touching John, looking at John, focusing on him and only him, the buzzing inside stilled, caused the otherwise constant cacophony inside his brain to stop.  Before he had met John he never realized how much noise there was in his head, and had he, he wouldn’t have minded.  He had never known anything different.  But now, well, Sherlock found that he didn’t mind the occasional silence.  Welcomed it in fact, as a respite from the hectic world around him, a respite that allowed him to just _be_.  Be with John.  The silence wasn’t something he needed all of the time, but sometimes, it was fine.  Just fine. 

He kissed John on the lips softly, sweetly, taking the moment to forget the busyness going on around them on this day.  In this moment it was just him and John.  Nothing could be more right. 

“Ready gents?”  Their best man stuck his head into the room; it was time to walk out and say their vows. 

The quartet that had been playing for the last hour as the guests arrived began the familiar strains of Scheherazade, the piece they had agreed on to be played immediately leading up to the ceremony.  They had initially decided a Bach melody would be the right choice, what with Bach being Sherlock’s favorite to play and John’s favorite to listen to (at least when Sherlock was the one with bow in hand).  But John had eventually convinced Sherlock it might not be a good idea after all; he didn’t want Sherlock interrupting the proceedings to correct the musicians if they managed to stray at all from the detective’s expectations of a piece he knew so well.

Sherlock and John reluctantly broke their kiss at Greg’s entrance, John nodding to him that, yes, they were ready.  John brought Sherlock’s hand up to his lips and kissed the back of it, pleased that soon the hand he held would be adorned by the simple gold band that would show the world that Sherlock was his.  _His._   Amazing.

Not taking his eyes off John, Sherlock asked, “Give us a moment will you, Inspector.” 

Greg looked over at John and with raised eyebrows questioned if he was agreeable.  John nodded in assent.  He didn’t know what Sherlock wanted, but a few more minutes alone was certainly nothing he would deny Sherlock.  Hell, to be honest, he wouldn’t have minded if they never left the room. 

“What’s up, love?  You aren’t having second thoughts are you?”  John knew that Sherlock loved him, wanted to be with him, but maybe the thought of the implications of a marriage had turned out to be too much for him.  He’d never thought of his lover as someone who would commit himself to anyone in such a way.  Not even to him.   

He and Sherlock had come to view their impending union as a marriage, despite the fact that same sex marriages could not be legally performed until months after their ceremony.  No matter what they called what they were doing, at the heart of it, it would they would be joined together in the most spiritual, most permanent way two people could be.

When Sherlock looked down, pressing his lips together, biting pensively at the obscenely full bottom one, John felt his heart tighten.  Maybe he had touched on Sherlock’s fears after all.  Christ, this can’t be happening.

“I have a confession to make, John.”

A confession?  Jesus, what has the git done?  John didn’t want to think of the possibilities, didn’t want to think about how whatever it was, it could bring an end to the future he hoped for…before it even started.  His grip tightened on the hands that had found both of his.

A small niggle at the back of his brain told him perhaps this wasn’t his wisest decision, but John couldn’t help it.  “Uhh, Sherlock, maybe we want to be legally bound before you start making confessions?  Just a thought.”

Sherlock looked up, his thick eyebrows practically meeting in the middle of his forehead in their consternation. 

“No, John.  If I don’t tell you now then it’s too late.” 

It drove John a little batty that, though he didn’t really want to know what it was that Sherlock wanted to “confess”, nothing but silence followed the pronouncement.  For such a wordy fellow, he could be maddeningly reticent sometimes.  Okay, he’d out-silence him then.

John crossed his arms and waited. 

“I tricked you, John.”

John’s face took on its trademark look of grand confusion.  “Tricked me?  What do you mean you tricked me?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. 

There had been few times John had seen contrition on Sherlock’s face.  If he remembered right, the look he saw now might be it.

“What is it Sherlock?  Just tell me.”  He was getting impatient; there were people waiting and he had no desire to play games. 

Sherlock looked down again, this time opening his mouth to speak. 

“When I told you the reason I thought we should get married was so we would be protected legally, I lied.  Well, when I say _lie_ ….”  Looking back up, and seeing John’s quizzical look, he pressed on.   “It will protect us.  But the real reason I wanted, I mean I want”, he paused to look at John, making sure he caught the correction, “to get married is because I want to be with you, only you, and I didn’t think you would believe me if…”

John held a hand up to Sherlock’s mouth, pressing it to his lips to keep him from having to explain any further.  A bit of mumbling came from behind the hand as Sherlock kept talking. 

John couldn’t help chuckling, his head tipping back in his mirth.  “Enough.  You think I didn’t know that, Sherlock?”  Seriously.  For such a genius, Sherlock could really be spectacularly ignorant sometimes.

“You did?”  Sherlock eyed John with suspicion. And here he thought he’d been so clever.  “But you went along, you didn’t say anything.”  Sherlock didn’t understand why John would do that. 

“Of course I did, Sherlock.  There isn’t much you do without an ulterior motive and there isn’t much you can hide from me.  I went along with your reasoning for the proposal to save you the embarrassment of revealing you have so much _sentiment,”_ John mocked the word just a little to lighten the connotation; he knew how Sherlock felt about the word itself, not to mention how much he would deny that he could actually feel it in his heart. 

“Besides, if I’m to be honest, it doesn’t really matter why you want to be with me.   Whatever the reason, in the end I win.  I get to be with you.” John said this as a simple statement of fact, shrugging slightly.  “That’s all that matters to me.”

Sherlock didn’t know how it happened, but sometimes he underestimated the former soldier, didn’t give him enough credit for his powers of observation.  Stroking his hands down the lapels of John’s tux, his gaze fixed on the rose pinned onto the left side.  Fingering the velvety petal, his thoughts strayed to the day they met, the feelings that had developed in him since then, but that he now couldn’t express.  The words he wanted to say came out instead as a brief botany lesson.

“Roses are a woody [perennial](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Perennial_plant) of the [genus](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Genus)  _Rosa_ , within the family [Rosaceae](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rosaceae). There are over 100 species. Most species are native to Asia, with smaller numbers native to Europe, North America, and northwest Africa.  Rose plants range in size from compact, miniature roses, to climbers that can reach 7 meters in height. In most species…”

“Sherlock.  Now?  Really?”  John interrupted, he _really_ didn’t have any desire to learn about roses at the moment.

His mind returning back to the here and now, Sherlock became silent.  In the months since he had fallen in love with John he had come a long way in his ability to feel emotions he hadn’t known before, had come to learn how to identify them even.  But to speak them?  That was something he still hadn’t learned to do.   John deserved better.

“John.  John I…” he faltered, not knowing what words should follow; he didn’t know how to tell John how much he mattered to him, how he had never felt truly _alive_ until he had met John. 

Just as he has done before, and probably would many, many times in the coming years, John saved Sherlock from the frustration of trying to explain what was going on deep in that mysterious heart of his.

John looked tenderly at the man standing inches away from him.  

“It’s alright, love, you don’t have to explain.  I know you love me, that’s all that matters.  You don’t have to say it.” 

Sherlock’s relief at John’s ability to speak for him was evident.

“I do, John.”

John smiled a little cheekily.  “Save those words for later.  So.  Are you ready to go get married now?  Now that I know your deep, dark secret?”  He teased.

Sherlock’s answer was clear in the hungry kiss he gave him; he didn’t think he could ever get enough of John Watson.

Lost in the heaven that was Sherlock’s mouth, John regretted that there were 263 people outside waiting for them.  If there weren’t, he would not have thought twice about relieving Sherlock of his clothes and taking him right then and there. 

* * *

 

With the strains of the music reaching a dramatic crescendo, they made their way to where the registrar stood and faced one another, each somber with the significance of what was about to take place. The garden was resplendent in its spring blooms, the wisteria filling the air with its sweet scent. 

There was no finer day.

* * *

 

That changed in less than an instant.

The deep boom of the explosion split the air, shaking the ground below them.  They could hear the glass from the surrounding buildings as it shattered and fell to the ground, the screams of their guests at they reacted to the threat to their safety.

“Sherlock!  Get down.  Now!”  Whether it was panic or anger that caused him to yell at his beloved, John didn’t know.  And he didn’t care.  All he knew was that now was _not_ the time for Sherlock to stand there, seemingly impervious to the danger while his eyes darted around him in curiosity, looking for the location, if not the cause of the explosion.  Dragging a reluctant Sherlock by the arms down to the ground with him, John draped his body as much as possible over the detective’s now kneeling form, covering his head to protect it from any debris that might fly at them through the air.  


	2. Ring

Instinctively, John reached for his gun in the back band of his tuxedo trousers; pulling it out, he dropped his hand down to where no one could see the weapon unless they were looking for it. 

Well, except for…

“Really, John, carrying a weapon on our wedding day?”  emerged the deep voice from underneath him.  Sherlock would never be accused of avoiding the important issues in life.  A bomb going off a hundred feet away?  No problem.  A groom carrying an illegal firearm in his wedding attire?  Now, _that_ was to be attended to.

“Be quiet,” John admonished.  Not that anyone would be able to hear Sherlock amidst the din, but John needed to focus on the situation.   His eyes quickly scanned the area as he looked to see if there was reason to believe there would be an another attack; he had learned in Afghanistan that it wasn’t uncommon for a bomber to follow with a second explosive, though were that to be the case it would probably be timed to happen as responders were arriving.

He watched as the women in their fine dresses and fascinators were rushed by the men out of the garden area through the gate at the far end from where explosion had taken place.  Fallen chairs and flower arrangements that had toppled off the now upset pedestals added to the chaos of the scene.

John decided it wouldn’t be any more dangerous than at any other time for them to try to make their escape.

As Sherlock righted himself, John was relieved to see that no harm had come to him.  Sherlock had a little more cause for worry, after all, John had been the one that had been left out in the open.  “You alright?” he asked as his eyes swept over John’s face, holding his eyes for a few moments before examining the rest him, searching for evidence of bodily damage.

“Turn around.”  John obligingly showed Sherlock the back of him.  Nothing.  Before John could turn back around, the detective wiped the look of concern off his face; it wouldn’t do to be caught with so much emotion on it.  Even by John. Especially by John.

Sherlock knew John was aware how much he loved him, even if he couldn’t say it, but one of the reasons he regarded John so highly was because of John’s strength in the face of danger.  And he didn’t want John to think he was weak.  He knew most people thought he was indifferent to the welfare of others; they would, for the most part, be correct.  But not when it came to John. 

“I’m fine, Sherlock.  I saw Mycroft and one of his bodyguards take your mother out the back gate; it appears as though the device was detonated at the front of the hall, on the street side.  We should go check on Mrs. Hudson. And Molly.”  In the commotion they had already been separated from Greg; most likely he had gone to be with the officers on duty from Scotland Yard who were in attendance to guard the important guests.  Fine job they had done, John thought derisively. 

“You go look after them, I’m going to find out where the bomb was set off.”  His coattails covered in the fine dust that was filling the air, Sherlock headed off in the direction from where they had heard the explosion.  With his mind filled only with the need to find out what had happened, Sherlock quickly strode away, leaving John behind. 

Huffing with frustration, John tucked his gun back into his waistband and hurried after Sherlock.  “Oh no, you don’t.  We’re sticking together.  For all we know the person that did this has something else planned, and there’s no way I’m going to lose sight of you.”  John well knew Sherlock’s propensity to head into the eye of the storm, danger be damned, and he was _not_ going to let Sherlock run off without back up.  Why the man always had to be so thick-headed, John didn’t know.  He would have to trust that Mrs. Hudson and Molly (Harry had declined their invitation) would seek shelter with others that were running out of the garden; his concern, as always, was with the tall man he had to practically jog after to keep up with. 

Sherlock and John had barely made it halfway to the entrance when two men in tuxes blocked their way.  They would have easily passed as wedding guests were it not for the guns they held in their hands and the cords hanging from their earpieces.

“Mr. Holmes would like you to come with us,” the beefier of the two informed them.  His tone was courteous, but firm.

Coming to an abrupt halt, Sherlock stood looking at the men, with little effort donning his most imperious glare.

“Tell _Mycroft_ over my dead body.”  He wasn’t about to be manhandled by a couple of goons at the instructions of his brother; Sherlock had been herded about enough already today.  This was just too much. 

“I believe, Sir, that is what he’s trying to prevent.”  The bodyguard didn’t move except to tilt his head in the direction John and Sherlock should go. 

Sherlock looked down at John and with an exaggerated sigh, “I guess we’d best go with them, John, whatever Brother Dearest wants.”  He put his arm around John’s waist as though to pull him along, instead, suddenly brandishing the Browning at the bodyguards.

It wasn’t a look that suited him well; it was obvious that handling a gun was not something he did frequently.  But that was the very thing that made Mycroft’s men nervous; there was nothing more dangerous than a novice with a deadly weapon in his hand.   

The other guard put his hands up in front him to show he was no threat.  “Now don’t do anything rash, Mr. Holmes.  We’re just following instructions.”

Though everyone else was nervous with the gun that was waving back and forth at the guards, including John, Sherlock was not.  He was perfectly calm in his certainty that he had the situation under control.

“Come along, John,” Sherlock commanded as he backed them away from the guards towards the scene of the crime, hearing the sounds of approaching sirens as they did so.

John couldn’t help but snigger at the annoyed faces of the two men they left behind.  Getting a good bit of distance between themselves and the guards, John carefully took the gun from Sherlock’s hand and, reassuring himself the safety was on, once again put it back into his trousers. 

Despite the many times Sherlock had used the gun (the only time he had actually ever shot something happened to be at an inanimate object~ the wall in their flat.) John knew he should take Sherlock out to the moors and give him lessons, not to mention safety training.  It was not an object to be treated lightly, instead needing to be treated with respect, respect for the real damage it could do if used improperly.  One thing John would never tell Sherlock though was how, should he say, uhm, _hot_   the detective looked with it in his hand; John didn't want to think about what lengths his husband-to-be would go to use that information against him.

\----------------------------------------------------

It was after 3 in the morning by the time Sherlock and John arrived by cab at 221b. 

Sherlock was still high on adrenaline from investigating the bombing. 

John was tired.  And disappointed. Normally he was quite content to end the day in their flat after a long day of chasing clues.  But not today.   This was in no way how he had envisioned how their wedding day would end.  Or at least what was supposed to have been their wedding day.  They were supposed to be honeymooning at the quaint rented cottage, soaking in the hot tub.  Making love. But no.  They were back in the flat, no closer to legalizing their relationship than they had been at the beginning of the day, and all his boyfriend (frustratingly, still only his boyfriend) could think about was how clever the unknown culprit had been.

Christ.

“I’m tired, Sherlock.  Off to bed now.”  As he moved toward their bedroom, John removed the dark blue tie that had been hanging free around his neck for far too many hours now.  His expensive attire was dirty and scuffed and he was tired.  Tired _of_ it.  Tired of having anything good in his life interrupted by disaster.  Tired of having to run after corrupt people in the middle of the night when it would be nice sometimes to just lie around on the sofa and watch crap telly while drinking an ale.  Cuddling with Sherlock. 

John knew the thoughts in his head were unreasonable.  And he knew that in the morning after some sleep he would be back to his usual self, ready to take on the world with the most intoxicating person he had ever known. But for now, right now, he was going to feel sorry for himself. 

He looked back over his shoulder at Sherlock, who had settled himself in front of the window, obviously lost in thought.  No doubt with his mind absorbed by the bomber, deducing who they were, who their intended victim might be.  John couldn’t help but feel jealous, resentful that some unknown person was getting the attention that belonged to him. 

Not expecting a reply nor to see Sherlock for perhaps hours, if at all the rest of the night, he said “Night, Sherlock” and went to take a much needed and deserved shower.

John crawled into bed after his shower, alone, the blankets cool in their absence of body warmth.  Sherlock must still be in the sitting room… _thinking,_ as though there were nothing more important to be doing. 

* * *

 

The coolness of a damp head of curly hair on his chest, an arm flung high across his stomach, woke him.  Sherlock.  He sighed and drew his arm from where it lay above him on his pillow and wrapped it around Sherlock’s shoulders, taking his other arm and resting it over the warm body to form a circle.  He bent his head down and kissed the detective’s crown, shifting to allow his fingers access to play with the dark mop of curls.

Lying there in the dark, half-asleep, fingering the wet strands, he heard his name.

“John.”

He thought that no matter how many times he heard his name spoken in that rich timber it would always reach to the depths of him, make him feel as though instead of his name he would hear himself being told he was loved. 

Turning his head he could see the read out on the clock.  4:38.  John knew he had a bit of a short fuse sometimes, but when it came down to it, he couldn’t stay angry with Sherlock for long.  Especially when his lover was warm and languid as he was right now.

“Hmmm?”  He invited Sherlock to continue.

“You were having one of your nightmares.  You haven’t had one since… since after I was shot.”  It distressed Sherlock to think about when he very nearly died.  The thought of dying didn’t frighten him, but the knowledge that they had been so close to not fully realizing their relationship, now that was a most unpleasant thought.

“Was I?”  John was surprised.  Not so much that he had had a nightmare, but that he was unaware he had.  Usually when he did, he woke up with a feeling of dread, the memory of his dream lingering with whatever horror had been filling his sleep. 

Sherlock reached up and brushed something wet from John’s cheek.

Oh.

John closed his eyes and there it was.  The remembrance of Afghanistan, of bombing in the night, of running after the soldiers who had become his friends, too late to pull them from harm’s way.  Sometimes with “only” the loss of a limb, or two… if they were lucky.  John knew he had always suffered a form of survivor’s guilt.  Not that he had wanted to be injured, but he wondered why he had always been able to escape death when so many good soldiers had come home in a body bag. 

Tensing at the unwanted memories that he knew would always be a part of him, he hugged Sherlock harder, beyond grateful that here he was in a warm bed, safe, with the love of his life wrapped in his arms; he pressed a kiss atop Sherlock’s head again, “I love you so much.”  He was counting on Sherlock’s still underdeveloped emotional intuition to keep him from detecting the hint of desperation that lined the declaration.

“I know.  Not that I mind you telling me all the time, but I’m not likely to forget it from one day to the next, now am I.” 

John knew that in the dark room Sherlock wouldn’t be able to see the amused smile that emerged on his face at the characteristically very un-romantic response.  But it was fine that Sherlock didn’t respond in kind.  Just fine.  John was happy to know that Sherlock had no doubt he was loved.  Little else mattered.

Putting a finger under Sherlock’s chin to tilt his mouth up to his own, John murmured against _those lips_ , “Just making sure you don’t forget,” as he pressed their lips together for a kiss he hoped Sherlock wouldn’t soon forget either. 

____________________

Put together all the criminals in the world, all the mutilated bodies, all the mysteries, all the tobacco ashes and they still wouldn’t compare to how Sherlock felt when he kissed John.  _Interesting_ wouldn’t remotely begin to cover it. 

All of his life his body had clung to the cold, thus the constant companionship of his coat and scarf; if he had ever thought about it, he had put it down to the ever-present chill in the London air.  But not now, no, not now.  The warmth that pervaded his body was not one of lust, though that was sure not to be far off, but of the heat one found when sitting by the crackling fire in the hearth on a cold autumn evening.  Soothing.  There was something about sitting by the fire that helped Sherlock focus on whatever case he was involved with. 

Kissing John helped keep him warm and helped him to focus.  Focus on John.   Helped him to think of nothing but the mouth that perfectly complemented his, helped him to forget about bombers and disrupted weddings and the perils that were inherent with their life.  About the possibility of losing John to the myriad of dangers they faced.  Kissing John helped him to think of nothing but Right Now.  And there was nothing better.

The kisses that started off almost tentative in their gentleness, transformed into a firestorm.  Sherlock accepted the tongue that stole into his mouth, its insistence at becoming an integral part of him causing his mind to go almost numb with the surge of want it triggered. The hands that gripped his ample arse, pulling him roughly to meet John’s hips, nearly undid him.  He reached up to hold John’s face in his hands, tugging him closer, impossibly closer.  There was no room to breathe, but he didn’t mind.  Breathing was boring.

The love they made was primal and urgent, each body igniting that of the other; if one could have crawled under the skin of the other, there would have been only One. But as it was, they had to make do with skin on skin, had to make do with touching and caressing anywhere that could be touched and caressed. They stretched and yearned, hard and demanding, bringing themselves to a near simultaneous climax. 

Afterwards, they lied there with their bodies entwined, as the hearts within their chests returned to their normal rhythms.  

Without a word and not bothering to conceal his nakedness, John drew himself away from Sherlock and got up from bed, leaving the room.  Though Sherlock didn’t like that John had left him, he couldn't say he minded that particular view of him. 

Coming back a few minutes later, John lay something down on the bedside table that in the dark appeared just a few cubic centimeters; it gave the lightest of claps as it hit the hard surface.  He sat on the side of the bed, facing Sherlock, his knee jutting out between them. Turning on the small lamp that gave off a warm glow, he looked down at Sherlock, looked at the eyes that so often took his breath away. 

As soft as the light was, Sherlock's eyes squinted at the intrusion.  “Why are you just sitting there looking at me?” Sherlock wanted to know. “Come back under the covers,” he said, patting the space beside him that should be filled with John. All of John.  

Ignoring the request, not unkindly John said “Today was supposed to be our wedding day, Sherlock.”  The hint of mourning in his voice perfectly matched the one in his eyes.

Never one to overlook the obvious, Sherlock felt compelled to correct John.  “Actually, seeing as it's 5 in the morning, yesterday was our wedding day, well, that is, had we gotten married it would have been…”

John patiently listened to Sherlock finish explaining just how it really _wasn’t_  the same day despite the fact that it felt that the night was not yet finished.

"Yes, love, I know, techically, but if you want to get _technical_ , we weren't getting actually getting married, either." Jesus, how he loved this man, his literalism, his passion for being meticulous in all things, his determination to slice through the smallest bit of inexactitude. And yet at all times he was guileless, at least he was with John; there was not a thing that was hidden.  

John didn't move to lie back down beside Sherlock, instead picking the small object off the bedside table, which Sherlock could now see was the jewel box that held their wedding bands. What was he doing with them here? Sherlock wondered. 

Taking the smaller band out of the box (though Sherlock was taller, he possessed the slimmer fingers of the two of them), John set the half-empty box back down and pondered the gold band he rubbed between his fingers. 

Looking up from the ring and locking eyes with man he held so dear, "Sherlock... I don't care what government papers say or don't say, you are MINE. You are mine in my heart.  You are mine to take care of.  And you are mine to be beside me until the end of my life." It was as though he was having difficulty breathing, so deep was the conviction of his words. He lifted Sherlock's left hand and slid the band on his ring finger, bending to kiss it where it had finally found its home. "No matter that there is no piece of paper to say so, you are my husband." 

The finality with which he made the statement was unmistakable.

Watching with curious eyes as he pivoted his newly adorned hand slowly back and forth in front of his face, felt the slight weight of the ring, Sherlock found himself in the strangest of positions. There had never been a time in his life where he had been at a loss for words, not even if they were the wrong ones. But here he was with a lump in his throat and an odd stinging in his eyes…and not a thing to say. He had known they were going to get married, had been eager at the prospect of it, had thought he had been totally prepared for what was to come. But he had been a fool. Yes, a fool, because he had never imagined it would feel anything like.... _this_. He never knew it would feel so good to _belong_ to someone. 

Belong to _John_.

 

 

 


	3. Tempest

For almost 6 hours, Sherlock sat there in the bed, his legs stretched out underneath the covers, his laptop perched on his thighs as first it illuminated the dark room, then merged with the brightness as the sunlight settled in on the day.  Beside him, John lay backed up against the length of him, motionless in the deep sleep of the exhausted, his head resting at Sherlock’s waist.

Much of that time Sherlock searched the internet, his fingers flying over the keyboard, looking for connections between their guests and possibilities for why someone might want one or more of them dead.  He was inclined to think that the bombing was merely a warning of a sort ~ it didn’t make sense for a terrorist set off a device _outside_ the hall when all the attendees were inside the garden, many yards away from any intended target.  Nonetheless it seemed obvious that the message was for one of the countless government officials or politically connected moguls at the wedding. 

He searched for political activists that had a history of using bombs as means of making their statements.  He looked for individuals that were known for using ANFO, ammonium nitrate mixed with fuel oil, the suspected detonator in the bombing.  If ANFO was to be the link, without some kind of written message declaring who they were or what their intentions were, the bomber(s) would be difficult to find, for the mix was commonly used and simple to prepare with items easily purchased without special license.

But for the better part of those 6 hours he contemplated the sleeping man who had so quietly, so unobtrusively become a fundamental part of him. 

All of his life Sherlock had been alone, not lonely, just…alone.  Certainly, when he was a boy there had been family, as there still was, but he had never felt a part of it, had always felt an outsider in the one unit that most found to be safe and comfortable. Uni had followed, a place where the students quite vocally declared you an aberration if you were not involved in at least 10 social or academic clubs.  It was with great relief when, after that, he was truly on his own in every sense of the word. 

Sherlock was surprised that not only did it not bother him to have someone in his life, in his home and bed, but that being with John made his life… _better_.  He had liked to be alone, had liked to pursue his passions at all hours of day and night for as many hours and days as he pleased, without interference. The only thing he had detested was the “concerned” inquiries as to why he didn’t date, as to why he didn’t do the “normal” things other young men his age did.  Really, did people not have better things to do or to concern themselves with?

He had been perfectly satisfied with the life he lived. 

Or at least he thought he had been.

Now he couldn’t imagine going a day, an hour, a minute without his… _husband_   by his side. 

Sherlock sat there, thinking how he had never understood what people were talking about when they mentioned having peace and contentment. At least not until he met John.  Not until this small man came into his life and righted a world that he hadn’t known was off kilter. 

He closed his eyes, his breathing even and shallow, as he appreciated the sensation of, well, nothing but unadulterated _happiness._   Now that he knew what it was, he didn’t think he could, _would_ ever live without it, at least not as long as John Watson was a part of him.  He, Sherlock Holmes, was  happy.  The side of his mouth curved into a small smile as he thought to himself how people who knew him well would find that to be almost unthinkable.

His heart full, he reached out and touched John, feeling along the curve of his shoulder, outlining the contours of his lips, considering the varied textures of his skin wherever his fingertips caressed.  He brushed his fingers lightly through John’s hair, feeling, as always when he did so, a profound connectedness with the man he touched. 

John shifted, and Sherlocked stilled, unwilling to disturb John’s rest, reluctant to break the reverie that allowed him to fill his mind, without interruption, with the wonder of the new circumstance of belonging to John.  _John._

So as not to wake John up, he paused in his exploration. Sherlock looked at the ring on his left hand.  It was fascinating. Though unused to wearing any kind of adornment he wouldn’t say it was an unwelcome sight. 

He took the ring off and stroked his fingers along its flawless surface, felt along the smooth curve of the ridge, explored the inside of the circle where the sensitive pad on his finger felt…something.  Bringing the ring up to his eye, Sherlock could for the first time see that John had had something engraved.  He smiled; it was just like the doctor to do something so sentimental. 

“I owe you so much” the inscription read.

“I owe you so much”?  What did that mean?  To what was John referring?  With what little Sherlock knew of the marital tradition, he still knew that most people made _romantic_ gestures.  And though he knew (and cared) even less about romance than he did the conventions of marriage, one thing he did know was that that was not what the engraving was about. 

Sherlock was perplexed. What would John think he owes him?  And why?   And if John felt he owed him something, why hadn’t he told him about it?  Looking down at John he regretted that the connectedness he had been feeling only moments ago would not somehow effortlessly divulge the answer.

Sherlock’s thoughts darted round as he sorted through the possibilities.  _Think!_   But he couldn’t find anywhere in the recesses of his mind anything of significance he had given John or done for him that would create a debt.  He started to feel a vague panic as his thoughts landed, unbidden, on the ill-advised relationships he had engaged in in his younger years, the relationships that had all turned out to be based on lies.  The worst lie of all… was it possible John didn’t love him?  Was he merely staying with Sherlock out of, out of … _gratitude?_   The idea of it caused the bile in his stomach to threaten to reach his throat.    

The only conclusion he could come to that made any sense at all was that John had lied to him.  About what, he didn’t know.  But did it matter?  If he had lied about this, surely he had lied about other things.  It meant he, Sherlock, had been wrong to trust John; he had been wrong to leave his heart unguarded from the man lying next to him.  Not only did it mean that he could not trust John, but that he couldn’t trust his own judgment.

The edges of Sherlock’s world went dark at the thought that once again he had been wrong about whom to trust, who to love.  Terribly, terribly wrong.

The heart Sherlock had opened wide to let someone in after so many, many years of enforced solitude clamped shut; the sound it made as it did so was almost audible in the quiet room.

Entirely devoid of any emotion, Sherlock calmly powered down his computer and shut the lid.  He put it on the table while he walked around to the other side of the bed and picked up the small box that had been such a source of joy only a few hours ago.  He carefully placed the ring into an open groove.  The box was otherwise empty, the other ring having been placed on John’s finger shortly after Sherlock had received his. 

Sherlock’s hand faltered as he thought of those moments that had at the time been, or so he had thought, heartfelt and tender.

He wouldn’t think of that now.

After carefully shutting the lid of the box so the spring didn’t snap it shut with a clap loud enough to wake John, he retrieved his laptop and clothes, soundlessly making his way out of the room.

\--------------------------------------------------

John didn’t think he had ever been happier. 

He stretched wide in the bed, discovering in the process that Sherlock was already up and about.  Did that man never sleep? he thought fondly. 

The disappointment he felt at their wedding day deteriorating into crime a scene was tempered by the memory of the private ceremony they enjoyed in the pre-dawn hours.  If John were to be honest, it was more emotional and intimate than any they could have had whether two or a hundred people were in attendance. It was more than he could have ever wanted it to be. As far as he was concerned, he and Sherlock were now well and truly married. 

Climbing out of bed, his feet landing on the smooth wood-plank floor, he put on his clothes, brushed his teeth, and made his way out to the sitting room.  Seeing Sherlock poised over the microscope at the kitchen table, he paused to take in the sight. 

Jesus the man was gorgeous.  How he was so lucky as to be attached to someone with both brains _and_ beauty, he had no idea.  Even in the poor lighting, Sherlock’s rich auburn hair gleamed.  The crisp white shirt against his neck and wrists that contrasted sharply with the charcoal suit somehow made his pale skin look healthy and vibrant.  John could feel himself grow hard as he thought of how impossible it would be to ever get enough of him; he could watch Sherlock for a lifetime and never feel as though it would be long enough.

Walking over to where Sherlock sat, with one move John reached under his arms to hold him around his rib cage and bent his lips to nibble at the delectable neck that seemed to be offering itself up to him as a sacrifice. 

“Good morning, love,” he murmured against the pulse he could feel there.

Whatever kind of response he expected, it wasn’t for Sherlock to pull his head away, disengaging himself from John’s lips, and to firmly take ahold of John’s wrists to remove his arms from where they wrapped around him. 

The words Sherlock spoke as he did so, “Please remove yourself from me”, were polite enough, but the way in which he said them was tight and unyielding.  He didn’t look up from his microscope.

What…? 

What had gotten into Sherlock?  He had been just fine when he went to sleep.  John was puzzled at the behavior, wondering if he should put it down to the concentration Sherlock needed for whatever he was examining.  He had learned early on that whenever Sherlock was deep in his work, there was little that he would allow distract him.  But still, _this_ morning was different.  At least it should be. And Sherlock was rarely so taciturn with him, even at his most annoyed.

“What’s up then?”  John asked calmly, hoping that Sherlock would shed some light on whatever it was that seemed to have him so tightly wound.  He didn’t think that it was just because his concentration was disturbed.

“Nothing’s _up_ ”, the “p” emphasized with a slight pop.  “I have things to do and I don’t want to be bothered.”  Sherlock’s tone was brusque and dismissive.

Though Sherlock didn’t look at him, John could see the aloofness behind his eyes, the look Sherlock reserved for people like Anderson and Donovan when it was too much trouble for him to pretend to be courteous.  The snideness wasn’t there that was usually offered to those two, but neither was the warmth he reserved for John.

John felt a cold chill run through him.  Something was wrong. Horribly wrong.

Throughout the day, in between his chores or reading the daily paper, John gently persisted, trying to draw Sherlock out, trying to find out what had upset him.   He got little but indifferent responses from Sherlock.  When he got a response at all.

It didn’t occur to him to wonder if the anger was directed at himself; Sherlock was rarely cross with him, and if he ever was, it was there and gone.  No.  No, something else was going on. 

Early in the evening Sherlock’s phone pinged and after looking down at it briefly he got up and walked toward the door, removing his coat and scarf from the rack.  As he had all day, he avoided looking at John, didn’t even look in his direction.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, John felt uncertain as to whether Sherlock would want his company as he went out. 

“Do you want me to come along, then?” he asked, doing his best to disguise the hesitancy he felt, trying to quell the urge to be sick.  That he even felt he had to ask was a clear indication that something was badly amiss between them.  John’s eyes studied Sherlock’s face, looking for any glimmer of the man he knew so well that he was to have married the day before.  But he saw none. 

Sherlock didn’t pause as he wrapped his scarf around his neck. Knowing what he needed to say, he still took a moment to consider his response; it was harder to say than he thought it should have been…given the circumstances.

“No need. Detective Inspector Lestrade requested I take a look at some evidence from last night. You would be bored.”  His back ramrod straight, chin held high, Sherlock spun towards the door and reached for the handle. 

Bored?  BORED?! When the hell have I ever been bored?!  John wanted to shout at Sherlock, shock him into some kind of honesty.  He didn’t care if Sherlock was mad at someone, mad at _him;_ how could he fix the problem if he didn’t know what it was?  But he didn’t raise his voice, his emotions were too raw and he knew that yelling was not the way to get Sherlock to open up. He was afraid of the fury he could let loose, perhaps making whatever was wrong, worse.

“Alright.  Let me know if you need my help”, somehow knowing that there would be no text asking him to come along after all.

Flexing his left hand, bewilderment and fury in equal parts swirled around inside him as he stood watching his new husband leave the flat.

Without him.

\-----------------------------

As John listened to the thumps telling him Sherlock was hurrying down the stairs, the thought came to him that there was something he had missed.  It was just on the edge of his consciousness that there was something he saw, or didn’t see, that wasn’t as it should have been. 

It came to him with heart stopping clarity.  With a dread that made every step feel like he was walking in quick sand, he went into their bedroom and picked up the black box, hands shaking. 

In the space that should have been empty, lay Sherlock’s ring.

Jesus.  Fucking.  Christ.

John barely made it to the loo before he wretched. 


	4. Chasm

“Thanks for coming in guys.  Have a seat, I’ll be with you in a minute.” 

Studiously ruffling through the stack of paperwork on his desk, Lestrade didn’t look up, knowing from the muttering he heard outside his office that Sherlock and John were there.  There was always a buzz in the air when the pair arrived.

It was several moments before he realized he’d heard only one set of footsteps come in.  Raising his head, his salt and pepper hair ruffled, eyes bleary from having barely slept the night before, he finally recognized that the consulting detective sat on the sofa at the far end.  Alone.

He took an unnecessary glance around, the room was far too small to miss another person should they be there, and seeing no one other than Sherlock, looked out into the workspace beyond the door.

Puzzled that there was no John in sight, he asked, “Where’s John?  He alright?”  He didn’t recall a single time he had seen one without the other since the day they’d met. 

Sherlock looked down and licked his lips before he gave the answer he had rehearsed on the cab ride over; he had known the Inspector would ask.  “He’s a bit under the weather and felt it best not to come along.  The damp, you know.”

There.  _That_  awkward question was out of the way.  Now they could get with the case.  He shrugged out of his coat, took his scarf off, and laid them precisely on the seat beside him.  Crossing his legs, he pulled his trouser leg down where static electricity had attached it to his sock and brushed some dirt off his shoe.  Sitting upright once again, he laid his arm on the arm of the sofa.  Almost immediately, with nothing to occupy them, the fingers on his left hand began to fidget, not as if to any graceful rhythm in his head, but instead an erratic mix of jabs and taps on his thigh.

 “Under the weather?  Sorry to hear that.” 

Lestrade had known Sherlock far too long to believe what the man across from him said.  He noted the austere look around his eyes, the firm set to his mouth, the rigid way he held his body.  He knew Sherlock well enough to know that he only looked like that when something was upsetting him, and that something was _not_ that John was sick; it had to be something more.  If he had to guess, he would say they’d had a tiff.  Ah, well, they’d get over it.  Deciding not to press, he thought it best to get to the business at hand. 

“Someone put an unstamped envelope in the mail drop overnight.  Anderson dusted it for prints before we opened it…”

Sherlock heard the Inspector talking, but he couldn’t keep his mind from wandering, letting Lestrade’s voice reduce to white noise as it droned on.  All day it had been the same, he couldn’t concentrate on anything.  Anything but John.

Staring out the window behind Lestrade, he breathed deeply through his nose as _that_ name flitted through his mind.

John. 

He knew that today John had thought that, at best, he had been distracted… that at worst he had been ignoring him.  Neither could have been farther from the truth.  Every single second of the day he had been finely attuned to John, every cell in his body had been alert to where John had been, what John had been saying.   His nostrils had caught and held the scent of him as he passed by, the hairs on his skin prickled whenever he was within 10 feet of him.

It had been sheer hell.

Because even though he had been hyper aware of… that person, he couldn’t shake the heartbreak he had felt when he realized… that person had lied to him.  The overriding reason he had allowed himself to love, well, _him_ , was because he had come to believe he had been the only person who had fully earned, had _deserved_ his trust.  Unwavering trust.  And then when he had discovered he was wrong, in one earthshattering instant he had ceased to be whole. 

Sherlock’s heart warred with his brain.  He knew, whether logical or not, that his heart belonged to John.  But his brain, his big, scientific, logical brain said that just could not work.  In any war, the brain had to win.

His phone pinged.

_Sherlock, come home NOW.  We need to talk._

Sherlock looked at the screen, at the message he knew that to answer, or ignore, could hold the rest of his life in his hands.  Out of habit he went to type a response.  Thumbs poised over the keys, he deliberated briefly, then pressed his thumb to the OFF button.

* * *

 

_Sherlock, come home NOW.  We need to talk._

It had taken more than a quarter of an hour before John could draw enough oxygen into his lungs to breathe properly again, before he could steady his hands enough to text Sherlock to tell him to come _home_ so they could talk about whatever it was that had put Sherlock into the state he was in.

Since he’d known Sherlock, since he’d _fallen in love_ with Sherlock, certainly he’d suffered at the wrong end of the occasional snit, endured the random silent treatment.   Because of his almost constant proximity to Sherlock he was occasionally caught in the line of fire, but never,  never, had the ammunition been directed at him, never had it been personal. It had never been anything he couldn’t endure with some patience and a few well-chosen words.

But _this_.  To have Sherlock return his wedding ring without so much as a word of explanation, a hint of warning, shocked John like nothing else ever had.  Swiftly and silently, Sherlock’s action had cut him to the core, literally dropping him to his knees. 

John waited for a return text.  Sherlock never failed to answer.  Ever.   

The phone he stared at, praying for it to offer a sound, a word, _something_ , stared back at him, silent and dark.  As though it was dead.

* * *

 

“ _Sher_ lock!”

Lestrade spoke sharply the third time he said the detective’s name, trying to break through whatever haze he was in.  He must be wrong, Lestrade thought; it had to have been more than a tiff.  He’d seen Sherlock and John bicker more times than he could count, but it’d never been anything serious, blowing over after a few minutes.  He’d never seen an all-out fight between the two, but whatever had happened must have been serious to have Sherlock so wrapped up he’d missed everything the Inspector had just said.

The eyes in the scowling face blinked and Sherlock turned his head slowly to face the Inspector.

“Do you want to talk about it?”  Greg softened his tone now that he had Sherlock’s attention. 

“Talk about _what_?” Sherlock said sharply.

Though Greg had asked the question, he felt on uncertain ground.  He wasn’t used to talking with Sherlock about personal matters and he wasn’t quite sure how to go about it, how Sherlock would react to even a concerned inquiry.

“Uh, ya know, you and John…  It looks like…”

“Like what, Detective Inspector?”  Sherlock practically growled in distaste at the intrusion.

Greg waved his hand vaguely as he tried to find words that wouldn’t further agitate Sherlock. 

“Christ”, he finally exclaimed.  “With John not here and you all…wound up tighter than a…I don’t know what, it just looks to me as though you and John might have had a fight and I want you to know if you want to talk about it…”  His words drifted off as his discomfort got the best of him.

“No, _Inspector,_  I don’t want to “talk” about it.” 

The two men sat there and looked at each other; the Inspector to give Sherlock a chance to reconsider the offer, and Sherlock arching an eyebrow at Lestrade, daring him to try again.

Sherlock was the first to speak.  “Let me see the envelope.”

“That was what I was telling you Sherlock, it’s gone.”

“It’s gone?  What do you mean it’s gone?  Did someone take it?”

“No.”  Jesus, if the man had just listened to him the first time ‘round.  “We took it to the evidence room, got it all tagged and everything, but when we went back to get it a few hours later it had disintegrated.”

“Disintegrated?  As in it got wet and returned to pulp?”

“No, disintegrated as in it became a pile of dust.  The note inside, too.”

“Did you see what it said before you put it in the evidence room?”

“Yeah.”  Not trusting himself to get the wording exactly right, Lestrade picked up the tablet off his desk, powered it on and handed it to Sherlock:

_Wake up to the two-tongued liver bird. That little wedding present was the first and last warning._

“Two-tongued liver bird.”  Sherlock pondered.  “A liver bird is a mythical bird that became, and still is, the symbol of Liverpool; I don’t recall any references to any of them that have two tongues.  Are there any other messages?  Are there any cases you’ve been working on this might refer to?”

“No to both.  We did get a partial print off the envelope.  Get this.  When we ran it we got a match to Kyle McMann.”

“Kyle McMann…  Where have I heard that name before?  Aah-h-h.  He was a minor player in the 1997 bombing that protested the British government’s attempt to start a state-run newspaper...”  Sherlock’s forehead pinched in thought.  “Isn’t he dead?  Wasn’t his body recovered as one of the victims in the 2011 riots?”

“Pretty strange, isn’t it.  How do fingerprints from a dead man find themselves on paper that won’t hold up more than a few days?”

Sherlock rose from the sofa and draped his coat and scarf over his arm.  “Let me take a look at what is left of the envelope.  Come on…”

He paused as he caught his mistake.  Straightening his back almost imperceptibly, he finished his sentence, “….Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade saw the consternation pass over Sherlock’s face as the consulting detective realized there was no John to follow him.  Poor fellow, he thought to himself.  He’d known a lot of couples that seemed to be attached at the hip, but very seldom as seamlessly as these two.  In fact just the other day he’d read in the paper about a couple that had been married for 64 years, never apart for more than a day.  One day the wife died, the next day the husband followed her; the reason they’d made the news was because it was such a rarity.  His mind had instantly gone to Sherlock and John, feeling that like that couple, one would not be able to go on without the other.  As romantic as it sounded, he hoped to God it wasn’t true.

Sherlock walked with Lestrade through the office toward the evidence room, impervious to the sly glances directed his way that were unsympathetically trying to figure out why his fiancee wasn’t with him.  It had never crossed Sherlock’s mind to be concerned with what others thought.  Most people were simple-minded and had nothing better to do than gossip about the insipid lives of people they knew, or even more boorishly, people they didn’t know. 

But as they passed by Donovan and Anderson, who were whispering with the barest of discretion, he heard Donovan snidely say, “Look, the freak’s here all by himself.  I told you it wouldn’t last.”

Sherlock gave her a scathing look, not revealing how true her words were.  Or how deeply they cut.

* * *

 

John sat there for far longer than he would care to admit to anyone, waiting for Sherlock to answer his text.  Or come home. 

Home.

Unlike Sherlock, John had had a number of places in his life that he had considered home in the truest sense; they had been places that he had felt happy and wanted and comfortable to go to after a long day or a holiday. 

221b Baker St was different.  It wasn’t the address and it wasn’t the flat itself that made it different… the difference was Sherlock.   221b was just the physical place they could call home.   John knew _home_ was wherever Sherlock was, whether on Baker St or on a damned rainy beach kneeling over a bloody corpse.  And John was certain it was the same for Sherlock.  But no matter how much happiness there had been at the flat since they ~~decided~~ _knew_ they needed to be together, the essence of “home” had been cruelly cleaved from it the instant he saw the ring in the box.

He was sure he had felt every conceivable emotion definable in the English language since that moment… confusion despair guilt (for what?!) loss desperation sympathy (why?) hatred fear impatience heart-aching-love sorrow pain regret longing…

Anger

Well, fine then.  SOD this.

If Sherlock didn’t want to talk about what was going on with him, then he didn’t have to.  To be fair, Sherlock wasn’t known for his ability to put his emotions into words, but that didn’t exempt him from at least trying.

And it didn’t mean John had to wait around like some pitiful, love-sick puppy waiting for him to do so.  Christ, they’re grown-up men that should be able to fix difficult issues.  With words... WORDS!   It shouldn’t be hard; it was no secret Sherlock knew quite a few.

Gathering his jacket, the doorjamb shook as he slammed the door behind him to head out into the evening.  He’d figure out where he was going when he got there.

* * *

 

Sherlock and Lestrade spent hours inspecting the remnants of the note, scouring the internet, digging up Yard resources connected to McMann.  They looked for any of hundreds of possible links between McMann and the wedding guests, even John and Sherlock, without producing a single solid lead.

Finally, after midnight, with Lestrade too tired to read the harsh computer screen anymore or to process what Sherlock read to him, they called it a night.

As Lestrade walked to the door, Sherlock hung behind, his hands in his pockets, his feet planted in place.

Looking punch-drunk, Lestrade told Sherlock, “Come on, mate.  You can’t stay here the night.  Even if you could, there’s no bed.”  He couldn’t imagine there was anyone who didn’t need to go home to bed.  _Right now_. 

“I don’t think it’s wise for me to go back to Baker St right now and besides, I can’t sleep on hotel beds, they’re too hard and too many of them have bed bugs.  Disgusting.  It will only be a few hours….” 

Lestrade thought Sherlock looked almost pitiful.  Almost.  Rarely did Sherlock look as though he wasn’t in full command of a situation, but when he did he looked lost.  And he looked lost right now. 

Lestrade wearily tilted his head.  “Come on now, Sherlock, you know it’s against policy for me to leave you here by yourself.” 

He sighed as Sherlock failed to budge.  “Just this once,” he emphasized.  “Tomorrow you go home and get yourself and John sorted,” kindly adding, “I’ve never seen anyone suited like the two of you.  You’ll be alright.  Now I’m _going_ home.”

Sherlock watched Lestrade leave the office, the room mostly lit by the computer monitors that didn’t get shut off for the night, the smattering of fluorescent lights at the far end of the room that hadn’t been turned off emanating the low level buzz that was a fixture in office buildings around the world.  Scotland Yard never closed, but there was no one left on the 2nd  floor.  It was a much different place without the hubbub normally attendant to the homicide division. It must have been a slow night for murders in London.

Settling himself onto the sofa in Lestrade’s office, for several hours Sherlock restlessly attempted to sleep, without success.

Readjusting his legs for at least the twentieth time, trying to get them to angle _just so_ , he was unable to sleep on the sofa that was at least a foot too short and six inches too narrow for his long frame.  He’d laid his jacket on the desk; his trousers would just have to get crumpled, that couldn’t be helped.  His voluminous coat doubled as a blanket. 

The sofa being too small was the excuse he used for not being able to sleep.  He refused to admit to himself that is was because his mind wouldn’t _stop_.  Sherlock’s attention focused not on thoughts of the bombing, but on the space around him that shouted at him “John is not here”.  He couldn’t stop thinking about John.  He hadn’t slept for almost 48 hours now and it appeared he would be getting no closer to it anytime soon.

He had finally turned his phone back on about an hour ago.

_Sherlock, come home NOW.  We need to talk._

The message sat where he had left it, undisturbed.  Fixing his eyes on it, he heard John’s voice say the words, heard the exasperation, the urgency.  Closing the text, he found there was no other text that followed. 

No new voicemail.

\-----------------------------------

 “I owe you so much” the wedding band said.

Sherlock rolled over to his back, hung his stocking feet over one arm of the sofa and laid his head back against the other, bringing his fingers to steeple at the tip of his chin. 

“I owe you so much”

He vehemently wished that love was as precise as science; if it was, he might be able to figure out what that inscription meant.  But there were no formulas for the heart; being in love was like trying to navigate a compound without knowing the periodic table. 

“I owe you so much”

Maybe, just maybe, he needed to look at this from a different angle.  Maybe he shouldn’t wonder what the inscription meant; after all, he wasn’t upset that John had put it there, what disturbed him was that John had lied to him.  No. He needed to break it down to individual properties. 

He was upset that he couldn’t trust John, because he had lied.  That was the crux of the matter.  If there is one thing that causes distrust, then everything else is in doubt.  Doubt was abhorrent to Sherlock, whether in his dealings with people or in his deductions.  Doubt was simply not to be tolerated.

But… _had_ John lied about why he wanted to marry him?  Could gratitude and love not co-exist with each having, if not equal, then, substantial meaning?  And if John did feel gratitude towards Sherlock (for what, he couldn’t imagine), did that make whatever love he felt invalid, did it cancel it out?

Sherlock realized that he had made the amateurish mistake of making an assumption without first discerning the facts.  He could not assume that John felt both love and gratitude towards him.  Gratitude was an established fact due to the inscription.  Was love a fact?  Did John love him?

That question frustrated Sherlock.  There was no scientific factor to love.  Love was like the wind~ you can see the effects of the wind but you can’t see the wind.  And there were facets to the emotion that could be fabricated, either in word or act. 

Sherlock lied motionless, deep in concentration.  He pushed aside how he felt about John, what John might feel toward him, and concentrated on what he had _observed_. 

In his mental journey to discover the truth about John, he thought back over the thousands of actions and words he’d witnessed since he’d known him, a quantity that could fill a lifetime.  Even with the great scrutiny with which he examined his memories, Sherlock couldn’t discern one lie John had told, one gesture toward him, or anyone else for that matter, that could be deemed false.

John was now, as he always had been, as noble and pure as the man Sherlock had first met, as he had fallen in love with.

Sherlock felt ill with the sudden realization that not only had John not lied to him but that he, Sherlock, had judged John as guilty for the very thing that he himself did on a regular basis. 

He had maligned John in an unfathomable and unforgivable way.  He had to get home.  Home to John.

And try to make it right.  If it wasn’t already too late.

* * *

 

Sherlock flew through the flat door, calling out John’s name, his need to find him approaching desperation.  As much as he felt the need to beg John’s forgiveness, his overriding need was that he _see_ John.  He needed to _touch_  him and _hold_  him. 

And to tell him he loved him.

With it being almost 5 in the morning, he went straight to their bedroom.  He had to look twice, his eyes disbelieving what he saw.  The bed was empty and untouched. 

He frantically searched the rooms in the flat, John’s name on his lips as he entered each one. 

But John wasn’t there. 

Sherlock went to their bedroom; he would put the ring back on.  He felt a small measure of comfort at the thought that to have it on his hand would make him feel better until he saw John again, to have John’s promise once again seated on his finger where he now had absolutely no doubt it belonged.

The box was not on the table.  He opened the drawer of the nightstand.  No jewelry box.  For 10 minutes he searched every nook and cranny that John had ever hid anything, every spot that he _might_  have thought of hiding something that small.  But he couldn’t find it.

The box, and the ring in it, was gone.  Just as John was.

With a despair he had never before experienced, Sherlock went to his chair and sat, tucking his legs up on the seat with him, wrapping his arms around them as he started to rock back and forth.

He watched the door, waiting for it to open.  Hoping more fervently than he had ever hoped for anything that it would.


	5. Trepidation

John was barely two blocks down the street before he started to cool off, his head clearing from the brisk walk and the cool spring air.  He was headed towards the Ram’s Head; it held a particularly unsavory memory, but they served the best bitter ale in Westminster. 

His hand played with the velveteen box in his pocket; after putting his own band back in with Sherlock’s, he’d kept it on him for safekeeping. It had saddened him deeply to remove his ring, but Jesus, Sherlock's was the only ring he had ever given to _anyone_ , had ever _wanted_  to give to anyone.  To have it so heartlessly returned, for no apparent reason at all was just too…too.

To wear his while the other sat there as a reminder of what could have been, seemed pointless. The two bands belonged together.

And right now he didn’t trust Sherlock alone with them.  If he came home, that was.

John knew he had no concrete reason to believe Sherlock _wouldn’t_ come home, after all, he hadn’t left until Lestrade had contacted him and he hadn’t taken anything with him, but still…   His world had just been rocked off its axis and he didn’t feel as though he could count on anything.  Certainly not Sherlock.

He compulsively checked his phone as he had every few minutes since he had texted Sherlock, not really sure what he would do if he did finally get a text.

Nothing.

Both relieved and disheartened, he knew he couldn’t keep doing this to himself, it was like a fresh wound every time he looked and saw the dark screen.  He turned it off.

Looking around the pub when he arrived, he saw faces that he’d tipped a few rounds with since he’d lived on Baker St, but not feeling particularly sociable, he just nodded in greeting and after ordering a pint, found a table near the back, choosing a chair that faced the wall.

* * *

 

“Com’on, mate, we’re closin’ up”. 

John felt the hand on his shoulder before he heard the voice, his soldier training kicking into gear telling him to remove the offending hand.  Not quite as swiftly as he intended, he found he had only grabbed a couple of fingers.  Christ.  He must have drunk a lot more than he meant to.  His hazy mind calculated he had been there about 7 hours.  All night.  A pint or two an hour, or was it….?  Too, much, trouble he thought, giving up on the math.

“Right mate, I’m on my way out.”  His tongue felt thick as he said the words.

It must have been the way he wobbled getting up that prompted the bartender to offer “I’ll get you a cab.  Whether you walked or drove here you shouldn’t be doin’ either on the way home.” 

John sat back down and waited until the barkeep told him the cab was there, helping him to get to the waiting vehicle safely.  He fell in, resting his swimming head on the seat back.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked. 

He hadn’t really thought about this.  Did he want to go home?  Did he want to go to a place where he didn’t know if he was welcome anymore?  Whether or not Sherlock was there, it was sure to be something he didn’t know if he could deal with right then.  Fucking Sherlock.  Fucking Beautiful Amazing Sherlock.  He vacillated between wanting to punch him and missing him like crazy.

“Did’ya forget where you live?”

“Bloody ha, ha.  No, I did _not_ forget where I live.”  I know where I live, I just don’t know where home is right now, he thought.  But where else would he go?  There was no one he felt like calling on at three o’clock in the morning, pissed. “Hey, can I sleep on your lie low?” 

Not even Sarah.

Feeling defeated, he sighed.  “221b Baker St.”

* * *

 

Sausage.

Normally he would be quite content to wake up to the smell and sound of frying sausage, but not this morning.  This morning he felt as though it was all he could do to keep his stomach lining down.  John pulled the cover up over his head, the better to keep the distance between his nose and that ghastly smell.

“Oh good, John, you’re awake!  I’ve made us some breakfast.”

The tone was far too chipper and far too…female.  Mrs.  Hudson.  He peered out of the blanket and sure enough, he was lying on Mrs. Hudson’s sofa.  He stretched a shaky hand to his leg, relieved to find he still had his jeans on.

“Uhh, good morning, Mrs. Hudson.”  How in all things that are holy had he gotten _here_? 

She must have read the confusion on his face.  “You were having trouble getting up the stairs, a little tipsy you know.”  She tapped her finger to her nose.  “I went up to get Sherlock to help you, but he wasn’t there, so I brought you in here and you were out like a light.”

Thankfully, he didn’t seem to be expected to participate in the conversation as she started to chatter about what a lovely wedding it was, until, you know… meanwhile busying herself around the kitchen, setting the table and filling the plates with enough food to feed half the wedding guests had they been able to fit into her small flat.

John sat up and couldn’t help a groan from escaping.  He _really_ needed to watch it, he couldn’t afford to fall into the same alcoholic pit Harry had.  Then it suddenly came to him _why_ he’d been drinking.  Oh.  Sherlock.  He briskly rubbed his hands on his face, trying to wake himself up and maybe, _maybe,_ gird himself for the difficult day to come.

Taking his time, since there didn’t seem to be any other way to do it, he got himself to the loo and washed his face, appalled by the sight of the haggard looking man he saw in the mirror.  John Watson, Lush.  Great.  A missing fiancée _and_ a raging hangover.  The day really couldn’t get much worse… and it had only just started.

As he sat down at the kitchen table, not willing to seem ungrateful for Mrs. Hudson’s kindness, he took the glass she handed him.  “Here, dear, have some pineapple orange juice, I always found it a wonderful cure for a hangover.”

She led the conversation while they ate, going on again more about the wedding, about the beautiful dresses (“I felt like such a dowdy old thing in with all those high society ladies”), about what a shame it was that such a lovely ceremony had been interrupted by some nasty terrorist. 

When John mopped up the last of the egg off his plate, the chatter stopped.  Looking at his landlady, he realized he’d missed what she’d been saying and seemed to be expecting an answer.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asked.

“Are you two having problems, dear?”

Fortunately, John was wiping his mouth with his napkin as she said this, giving him time to process how he might want to answer the pointed question.

Trying to delay, if not totally avoid having to tell the truth, he wiped his lips one last time and asked, “Why do you say that, Mrs. Hudson?”

In a no nonsense tone, “I wasn’t born yesterday, John.  3:30 in the morning, Sherlock isn’t home and you’re out, well, indulging?  And just a day after you were getting married?  The wedding didn’t get canceled because you wanted it to, so you should have been at least pretending you were on your honeymoon, making love, or whatever it is you young people call it these days.”

John coughed.  He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the casualness with which this septuagenarian referred to two men engaged in a romantic relationship; usually women from her era didn’t acknowledge such things took place, let celebrate them.

John decided to tell her what was going on with him and Sherlock.  There really wasn’t any way to get around it, she’d find out sooner or later; not necessarily a noisy woman, she was still pretty good at keeping tabs on everything that went on in her building.  Besides, it might be helpful.  

John took a breath to steady himself, still feeling far too raw.

“We exchanged our rings after we got home yesterday morning and by the time I woke up, he wasn’t talking to me and he’d taken his ring off.  Last night he went to work with Lestrade on the bombing and I haven’t seen him since.  I didn’t know he hadn’t come home until you just told me.” 

What stomach he had left dropped at the thought that Sherlock hadn’t come home.  Where had he gone?  Had he… had he had Mycroft pick up his things?  John didn’t know how he would be able to face it if that happened. 

What little composure he still had nearly dissipated when the landlady reached out and put her hand on his; the warm physical contact was almost too much. 

“All I can think of is that the idea of such a big commitment got the best of him and he decided he didn’t want to marry me.”  He looked down at the table, unwilling for her to see the hurt that must surely be transparent in his eyes. 

Mrs. Hudson patted John’s hand in sympathy.

“Sherlock loves you, John.”

“I know he does, that’s one reason it’s just so damn frustrating...”  “Sorry,” he apologized for the expletive.  “If he decided he didn’t want _me_ and broke off the wedding, then I, well, I’d be devastated, but I would move on at some point.  This.  This... he didn’t even _tell_ me.  I had to find out by finding his ring in the jewelry box.”

Feeling his eyes sting at the memory, he tried to lighten the mood, “It’s all my fault.  I know he doesn’t wear jewelry; maybe that was what was too much for him.  A gold band was too dandy for him.”  He forced out a chuckle, not fooling either of them.

“So what are you going to do?” Mrs. Hudson put tea bags in their cups and poured the hot water that had just come to a boil in the electric kettle.

“I don’t know.  If he won’t talk about it I have no choice but to move out, that is, if he’s still there; I can’t keep living in the flat with a silent partner and pretend there’s nothing wrong.”

“John Watson!”

Even though John’s eyes were on her, he still startled at the apparent accusation.  His brow furrowed in inquiry.

“You’re telling me it’s been a day and you’re giving up?”  She admonished.

John’s mouth gaped slightly as he thought about how to explain to her that time wasn’t the relevant factor here. 

“I’m NOT giving up,” he said, more severly than he intended. Lowering his tone, “You have no idea how it felt to see his ring in the box, the slap in the face it was to just see it sitting there without any warning.” 

“You’re right,” she said, “I don’t know.  But I know Sherlock and I know he didn’t do it because he doesn’t love you; I’ve never seen him light up the way he does when he’s with you.

Mrs. Hudson put her hand back on John’s.   “I know he’s not an easy man to live with and you’re far more tolerant than he deserves.  But you can’t practice patience just when you feel like it; if you don’t at least act like you have patience even when things are hard, _especially_  when they’re hard, then you two will never make it.  You have to love him as he is, even when you don’t understand him.”

She gave his hand one more pat, then gathered their dirty dishes and carried them to the sink.

John sat there for several minutes, thinking about what Mrs. Hudson said, his heart softening imperceptibly.  He closed his eyes and thought about Sherlock.  He _did_ love Sherlock, that was not remotely in question…even when he didn’t understand him, which was more than a good bit of the time. And if he was totally honest with himself, the challenge of his partner was a good part of what intrigued him, kept him from ever being bored.

John got up from the table, suddenly feeling the urgent need to get up to the flat.

Not wanting to be rude by hurrying off, he offered “Let me help with the dishes,”

“No, dear.  You go home to your Sherlock.  Run along, now.”  She waved her hand at him in a shooing motion, pausing only to give him room as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, huskily, unsure of what would happen from here, but grateful that there was hope that hadn’t been there before they talked.

“Go now,” she shooed. 

* * *

 

Despite having, moments before, resolved to have patience even when he didn’t feel like it, John was conflicted as he stood just outside the flat door, staring at it.  What if Sherlock _didn’t_ want him anymore?  What if, even if Sherlock told him what had happened, it was something he didn’t feel he could live with?   What if he hadn’t come home? 

What if…   What if…

There were far too many dark scenarios running through his mind, shaking his already precarious confidence that their relationship could survive.   And what then? 

He couldn’t let himself imagine that far ahead. 

He didn’t want to admit it even to himself, but he was so, so afraid of what he would find, or worse yet, what he wouldn’t find, on the other side of the door.

John pushed his shoulders back, straightening his spine; he lifted his chin, and with a determination equal to any he’d ever had in life, prepared himself for what was to come next. 

* * *

 

Opening the door, he scanned the room, and there was Sherlock, tucked into his chair, his arms wrapped around his knees, his head resting on top of the hiked knobs.  John looked at the unmoving form of his partner, realizing that though it didn’t look like a very comfortable position, he must have fallen asleep like that, coat, gloves, scarf and all. 

He let out the breath he hadn’t known he had been holding, his body going slightly limp with the relief he felt.  _Thank you_ , God.  The first major hurdle had been overcome, Sherlock had come home. 

He quietly closed the door, hung his jacket on the coat rack, and walking over to the chair, knelt beside it, where he could get a full view of his lover’s face.  It wasn’t often that John was given the gift of seeing Sherlock’s face in repose; the softness and serenity painted on those angular features made him even more breathtaking than usual. 

As his eyes roamed over Sherlock’s perfect features, the fine cheekbones, the cupid bow lips, the broad forehead, he wondered how could he _ever_ have entertained the thought, even for a moment, that he would move out, no matter the circumstances.  With a fierceness that seemed to come out of nowhere, he vowed to himself to fight to the death to keep Sherlock by his side.  They would work through whatever problems, whatever fears, whatever misunderstandings came their way, but they would do it  together.

He reached out and stroked Sherlock’s hair, the tumble of soft curls gliding under his palm and through his fingers, feeling as though he’d come home after a long, hard journey.  Ever so gently he rested his lips on those of the sleeping man, lightly caressing them with his own, dipping his tongue out to taste the sweetness he knew he would find there.  When, unexpectedly, Sherlock responded to his kiss, he cupped the back of Sherlock’s head, his hand tangling in his hair, and pressed in, barely aware of the trembling that overtook his body as their mouths explored each other.  John’s free hand found and clasped one of the detective’s; the long fingers, still encased in gloves, wound around his, holding on like they would never let go. 

Dear _god_ how he loved this man. 

Finally, dizzily thinking he might lose consciousness if he didn’t get some air, John rested his head on Sherlock’s leg, his chest heaving as the air he drew in calmed him. 

When heard the velvet baritone of Sherlock’s voice, barely above a whisper say his name, “ _John”_ , felt the hand that lovingly stroked his head, and looking up, saw the startlingly blue eyes searching his and finding nothing lacking, he knew. 

He knew the love of his life was still his. 

His.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need a hanky...sniffle.


	6. Sentiment

It shouldn’t have taken the 13 minutes it did to key in and send the text. 

He had observed people, even some on the shows that John watched, enough times to know what people said when they had hurt people they cared about. But not Sherlock. He wasn’t used to expressing such sentiment; even though he spoke 6 languages, this language was most foreign to him. Yes, over the course of the time he and John had been a couple he had told John he loved him once or twice, maybe three times at the most; he’d apologized fewer times than that.  But the words had come out in a rush without having to think about them. 

This time he had enough time to think about them at length to make sure he got the wording just right.  He had lied too many times to John, about things that didn't really matter. This was important and he wanted to make sure that what he said now was the absolute truth; there was too much at stake. He may have lost John after falsely accusing him of lie, and Sherlock himself had lied so many times in his life sometimes he didn’t even know what was true and what was not.  No, they had to be true.  They had to be right.

Without question he loved John.  Neither was it a question that he wanted John to come home (he thought the “please” was a nice touch).  Was he sorry?  He thought so, but it was such a rare occurrence for him to have this kind of thought cross his mind that that he wanted to make sure of it before he sent the text. 

Absolutely sure.

He was.

_Please come home.  I’m sorry.  SH_

_I love you.  SH_

Sitting in the chair hugging his knees, waiting for the response that didn't come, he had far too much time to think about what it would mean to lose John and it scared him like nothing before ever had.  It scared him to think that the best friend he had ever had, well, quite possibly the only friend he’d ever had, would not be there to solve crimes with him, would not be there to tell him something was “a bit not good”, would not be there to laugh with him when there was absolutely nothing to laugh about, but they did anyway just because it felt good.  Felt good to laugh _together._  

It made him scared to think of sleeping in a bed that would forever have an empty space beside him, a space that was not filled by the man that helped give him a life he had never known could be. 

It scared him to think he might not ever be able to touch John again.  
  
Slowly rocking himself back and forth he fell asleep, finally, exhausted from _too much_.  Too much of everything.  His mind still restless, he dreamed of John.  He dreamed of holding hands while running through the dark night of London chasing the latest serial murderer. He dreamed they were in the morgue identifying the body an old Uni schoolmate that had been on the wrong end of an armed robber. He dreamed of their future, two old men sitting on a bench in Regents Park throwing toast to the ducks.

He dreamed they were making love on a cold, snowy night, hibernating under the blankets that shielded them from the rest of the world.  
  
When he awoke to feel John's lips on his, at first thinking they were part of his dream, he opened his mouth to accept the life-giving force that he might from here on out only know in his subconscious . But when he was awake enough to realize it really was John, not a dream, the joy he felt was almost painful, so tight was the hold it had on him.  
  
John.  
  
John.   
  
" _John_ ," he breathed.  
  
He got down on the floor with his lover; he needed to be closer to him, he was quite certain his very life depended on it. Taking off his glove, he replaced it with John's smooth surgeon’s hand.  Never had anything felt so precious.  
  
John wiped the silent stream of tears from Sherlock’s face with his thumbs, "It'll be alright sweetheart, _we’ll_ be alright. We just need to talk about what happened so we can get ourselves sorted.  We can’t let this happen  ever again" he said with gentle sternness. The smile that had been on John's face disappeared, in its place there were pursed lips and a furrowed brow as the doctor thought about how he never wanted to see this proud man weep again; it just wasn’t right.  
  
When his face was sufficiently cleaned up, Sherlock held out his hand, palm up. "Mobile." Taking John's phone and opening it, a look of relief crossed his face; the phone was off, no wonder John hadn't answered. Tapping a couple of keys to power the phone on and gain access to the text program, he turned the mobile around to show John the message he'd missed.

When John reached out for the phone, Sherlock saw that John's left hand was bare. The ring wasn't there.   
  
John read the screen; the words he saw there touched him.  Though Sherlock rarely uttered the words, the doctor hadn’t had the need to hear them; until yesterday he had known without a doubt where the detective's heart lie.   
  
"What happened, love? Why, why did you take your ring off? I thought you were happy to have it." John kept his tone neutral.  To sound too accusatory might cause Sherlock to clam up in defensiveness, and though John felt Sherlock needed to feel at least some of the force of the pain he had caused him, right now it was more important find out what had happened, why Sherlock had turned his back on them.  
  
Sherlock spoke in a rush, "I was, John. But when I saw what you had inscribed in it, I thought you were marrying me because you thought you owed me something, not because...not because you loved me.  I know now I was wrong.  I know that you love me and that you would never lie to me.”  After taking a breath, “I _am_ sorry, John.”   
  
Incredulous, John exclaimed, "You what?! You thought I didn't LOVE you?" More gently he added, "You daft… how could you ever think I didn't love you?" John thought he had never heard Sherlock ever say anything that sounded less, well, less genius-like.  
  
"Sherlock.  I said I owe you because when I met you, I was _so_ alone and meeting you was the greatest gift I had ever been given; there’s nothing in this world that I could give you that would measure up to what you brought to my life . But know this, Sherlock, know _this_. No matter where or how we would have met, I would have had no choice but to love you.  No choice. As sodding cliché as it sounds, we were meant to be. WE are not a choice.”

His face clouding with the memories he hoped would dim quickly, John said, “You hurt me Sherlock; you can’t turn your back on me, on us, again."  
  
Sherlock looked down at John's finger, rubbing his thumb on the naked flesh where the wedding ring should be. He truly didn't know if the pain he felt in his chest was for himself or because of the pain he had caused John. Since knowing John he had been startled to find that on occasion he was concerned for his lover's feelings.  Before meeting John he had given little thought to emotions, not his own and certainly not anyone else’s; what little thought he had given to them was what the annoyance they caused when they interfered with his work.     
  
Looking back up at the blue eyes that were dark with emotion, "It won't happen again, John.”  

John didn't respond to Sherlock's declaration, unable to say it was alright, because it wasn't, and they were both too tired to get into an involved conversation.   
  
Searching Sherlock's eyes, John saw the sincerity in them, but as much as he would like to believe their truth, he was disquieted by the thought that Sherlock wouldn't be able to differentiate another misguided idea like the one he had had yesterday, from reality.    
  
John got up, his legs stiff from sitting on the hard floor, and reaching a hand out to Sherlock, helped lift him to his feet.

"We need to get you to bed, you look knackered; I know you were asleep when I came home, but I don't think you slept for two days before that, did you." He had no need to make it a question.

Sherlock shook his head like a child caught red-handed; he knew how displeased John was when he didn’t sleep at least a few hours each day.  
  
"Do you want me to fix you up something to first?  You probably haven't eaten, either, have you."  Another unnecessary question; he didn’t know why he bothered. 

Sherlock shook his head again, “I’m not hungry.” 

John sighed.  Someday he would have to help Sherlock figure out that sometimes his body needed food even when his brain didn’t think so.  But not right now.

Silently they walked hand in hand to the bedroom, each reflecting it was the last place they had been happy, had felt that there was nothing better than to be _them._  

Unwilling to be apart long enough to go to their respective sides, they undressed on John’s side of the bed.  After pulling off John’s jumper and tossing it onto the bureau, Sherlock paused, needing to ask the question that had been burning his throat. 

“Where are our rings, John?  You didn’t…dispose of them, did you?”  He knew that if John had, they could get new ones…if John agreed to it, but he found he already had an inexplicable attachment to the first and only ones he hoped they ever bought each other.

“I’d like to say ‘of course, not’, but I would be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it.” John couldn’t help but briefly think Sherlock was pretty cheeky to be concerned about his ring _now_ , but saying nothing, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the box, opening it to show Sherlock that the two bands were still there. 

Sherlock didn’t know if he should reach out to put his back on, there really was nothing he would rather do.  John could see the confusion on his face; it matched the struggle he felt inside. 

Looking up at Sherlock, “What do you think about holding off for a bit?  We can put them in a safe place and when some of the sting has worn off, we can decide how we want to handle them.  I don’t want them to be tainted with the struggle we’ve been through, I want to start fresh with them when we’re ready.”

Sherlock deliberated.  Though he didn’t necessarily agree (he wanted his _now_ ), he could see the logic in what John said.  And as much as he hated to, he had to admit that John was generally a more reliable predictor of how they should handle relationship issues.  Besides, he had _John_ , and he was far more valuable than any piece of gold.   

His eyes landed back on John and he nodded in acquiescence.

John left the bedroom and came back moments later.  “They’re under the skull, ready for us when we’ve got things straight.”  Despite Sherlock’s nod of agreement, John could see the hint of uncertainty still lining his mouth.  “Alright?  We need to be in agreement about this, this isn’t about just me.”

Making up his mind that that there was no better way, he resolved to from here on out trust John’s lead in matters of the heart.  He knew they couldn’t go wrong.  “Yes, we’ll leave them under the skull until we’re ready to put them back on,” he said so matter-of-factly that John couldn’t help but give him a look that said ‘what are you up to?’, wondering what was going on in that brain now.

Finishing undressing, they crawled under the covers, moving to embrace each other face to face, flesh to flesh, legs tangled, each grateful beyond measure that they were now where they belonged.

Together.

* * *

 

For once John lie awake while Sherlock slept, the gangly arms and legs wrapped around the smaller man as though he was a body pillow; the nose that snuggled into John’s neck exhaled warm puffs of air that were somehow soothing. 

In the darkness, John thought about the damage done by Sherlock’s misinterpretation of the ring’s engraving.  There had never been a time that John had not trusted Sherlock.  Not until now. 

More than once he had trusted Sherlock with his very life and never once had he had reason to believe that Sherlock would leave him.   Never once had he had reason to believe that Sherlock felt he could not trust _him_ ; he’d certainly had never given him any reason not to, or so he thought.  John found himself unsettled that he could no longer depend on Sherlock’s unwavering faith in him. 

And he knew there was no reason to believe that Sherlock would, any time soon, develop the ability to talk about things that bothered him, not unless it had to do with crime.  He hadn’t had to know his love for long to know that talking about… _feelings_ or personal matters was something that would rarely, if ever, be on the table.  Not that John was so adept at it himself, but he’d been in enough relationships to know that one sometimes had to struggle through such unpleasantries to keep things going. 

No.  For the first time since they had gotten together, John had doubt.  Doubt that they would have what it took to last until death did they part.  Part of him couldn’t help but wonder when the next time would be that Sherlock would take his ring off; a deep ache told him it was more a matter of “when”, rather than of “if.”  If it happened once, there was a far better chance it would happen again, that’s just how relationships went. 

Rubbing his hand along the smooth, soft skin at the small of Sherlock’s back, he desperately hoped he was wrong. 

* * *

 

“John!”

John opened his eyes and rubbed them, accidentally elbowing Sherlock in the ribs in the process.  “There’s no need to shout, I’m right here,” he grumbled. 

In the middle of repeating John’s name, Sherlock grunted at the intrusion of the offending appendage; it came out in a croak.

“John,” Sherlock coughed, “I think I found the meaning of the note that was left at Scotland Yard after the bombing, here, look”, he said as he turned the laptop so John could see.

John took a quick glance, less than impressed.  Did the bloody laptop _really_ have to be in bed with them  all the time?  Despite his reaction, this morning he had a hard time begrudging the intrusion of their third party; looking at Sherlock he could see from the intense concentration on that beautiful face that he was in his element, a look John hadn’t seen in days what with all the commotion before and after the aborted wedding.  The look on Sherlock’s face when he was absorbed in a case was one of his favorite expressions, his favorite, by far, being when his lover was in the throes of an orgasm. 

“Is anyone in imminent danger of dying?” John asked.

“Not that I’m aware.”  Sherlock glanced at the screen, perplexed; where _did_ John get that idea?

“Kiss me then.  The bomber can wait, the World’s Only Consulting Detective has something more pressing to do than chase his sorry arse.”

Sherlock didn’t have to be told twice, obligingly bending down to savor John’s upturned mouth.  While one of Sherlock’s hands held onto the laptop to keep it from capsizing, his other explored John’s strong jaw, the tendons in his neck, discovering how their movements coordinated to make every brush of John’s lips against his…perfect.

As Sherlock kept John’s lips occupied with his own, with light pressure his thumb traveled down between the well-defined pectorals, his fingers fluttering along, just enough to tease, but not to tickle.  His hand glided slowly down to the flat belly, down to where…

The laptop chimed, indicating there was an incoming email.

Sherlock’s hand paused and he opened his eyes, trying to see the screen without taking his mouth away from John’s.  Drat!  He couldn’t do it, this… will… just take a second…

“No, Sherlock.  Just… _no,_ ” John groused, knowing he was too late; he’d already lost Sherlock to the allure of criminal activity.

Quickly tapping on the keyboard, Sherlock opened the email, his eyes darting as he scanned the message.  He patted John absentmindedly, too absorbed in the email to finish what they had only just started.

Despite his frustration, John curbed his protests, knowing they wouldn’t do any good; Sherlock wouldn’t be available for anything other than brainwork until he got his current problem solved. Might as well fix himself a cup of tea.

When John walked back into the room with his steaming mug, Sherlock was talking to him as though he hadn’t left.

“… tells me he has it on good authority that Kyle McMann was a mole in the Liverpool Eleven, an underground terrorist group that preyed on occurrences of social unrest, such as the 2011 riots, to further their agenda against the social elite.” 

“And who is Kyle McMann?”  John was disconcerted by coming into the room in the middle of a (admittedly one-sided) conversation, having missed the subject upon which the whole of the rest of the dialog depended.

“Kyle McMann’s fingerprints were on the note left at Scotland Yard taking claim for the bombing.  He’s supposed to have been dead these last two years. Do keep up, John. ”

“Note?”  He felt trapped in a maze he wasn’t sure he could get out of.

“Yes, _note_ , John.  You know, a piece of paper with a message written on it.”

“No need to get testy.  Remember, you haven’t caught me up to speed on your meeting with Lestrade last night.”

That caught Sherlock’s attention.  Looking at John, his face pinched in the uneasy memory that John had not been with him, “You’re right, you weren’t there.”  He gave a brief summary: “Someone, we’re meant to believe it was McMann though he presumably died in the violence of the Blackberry Riots, popped a note in the mail slot at Scotland Yard that soon after disintegrated into dust.  Before it did, they found it said ‘Beware of the two-headed liver bird’, and that it was a first and last warning.”

“Warning for what?”

“I don’t know, that’s what I’m trying to determine, though ‘For what or to whom’, might be the better question.  I need to figure out how a man that’s been dead for two years is connected with a bombing that happened two days ago, how his fingerprints got onto that note.”

The computer chimed again. 

Sherlock read the message aloud.  “McMann worked on behalf of the British government to infiltrate the Liverpool Eleven, though reliable reports indicate that the man he worked for was a mole himself.  Open the attachment for a photo of the double-agent.”

“Jesus _Christ_ ”, John gasped, briefly viewing the picture before snapping his head in time to see Sherlock's face turn frighteningly stone-cold.   

For the picture of the person who was reportedly an enemy to the British government was someone they both had more than a passing knowledge of.

The face looking back at them was that of…

 

...Mycroft Holmes. 


	7. Sun

**Chapter 7**

 

Both of them sat there on the bed, stunned into silence by the photo in front of them.

John’s first reaction after recovering his wits was to laugh at such a ludicrous accusation. “Mycroft!  A spy! Ha!”  But he sobered after a few moments thought… was it _really_ such a far-fetched idea?  The arrogant bastard was more than a little covert; he wouldn’t put it past him, the slimy prick. 

John licked his lips and forced himself to back off the unforgiving thoughts, for now anyway; this was his future brother-in-law he was thinking this way about.

John laid his hand on Sherlock’s thigh to offer some reassurance; he had to be in at least minor shock given that his brother had just been accused of spying against the British government.  Even to Sherlock that had to be disconcerting.  And by the stony look on the detective’s face John knew he couldn’t be far off.

Still, John wasn’t prepared for the ‘Out!’, and the arm that thrust past him to point at the bedroom doorway.

“Wha…”  Nothing on John moved but his mouth. 

It registered in Sherlock’s brain that he was still not alone. He looked at John, processing the confusion he saw on his face.  Why would he be confused?  It wasn’t because of Mycroft’s photo; he had just scoffed at the idea of his brother as spy, didn’t he?  He didn’t look like that until…  Oh.

Perhaps…perhaps that wasn’t the way to go about it.  What would John do? 

He covered John’s hand where it lay on his leg and stated in a less autocratic tone, “I need to be alone, John, I need to go to my Mind Palace.”  The two pairs of eyes met each other as they found the shared understanding; Sherlock’s silently pleaded ‘please’.  He didn’t often make use of the word itself, but his eyes had no trouble communicating the request. John grasped Sherlock’s hand and giving it a squeeze, “Alright, love, I’ll leave you alone.  I’ll head down to Tesco; we’re not well stocked since we were supposed be gone these few days.” 

Sherlock nodded his head mechanically, already absent as he mentally prepared himself for his search.  He didn’t feel the other hand unclasp his, didn’t see or hear John leave the room.

* * *

 

For the second time in two days Sherlock found his world rocked by the doubt of who he thought someone was, vexing him with its seemingly new regularity. 

Mycroft, a mole?  Could it be possible?  Anything was possible, but was it true?  Though Sherlock was not a philosophical man, didn’t think or care how the average person reasoned, truth _did_ matter to him.  Unless he had the truth, how could he produce a reliable deduction?  In anything he did. 

By any definition of the word, he and Mycroft had never been close.  For most of their adult lives there had been a wary tolerance of each other, staying in contact all due to the unhappy coincidence of a shared mother.  Sherlock was well aware his brother had his hand in many matters, large and small, whether having to do with the government or relatively insignificant incidences such as murders by inconsequential hoodlums (he never _could_ figure out how Mycroft crossed paths with him so often when he was consulting.  Not that he cared, it was just…bothersome)

Not remotely interested in what the government did or how it worked, the one time he asked Mycroft just _what_   he did for the British government, receiving the vague response that his brother held a “minor position”, Sherlock let the subject drop, not needing or wanting to pursue an explanation.  But now he wondered.  Wondered if Mycroft’s ‘position’ and lifestyle were a cover for something more nefarious than promoting the welfare of Britain. 

Neither was loyalty a concept he concerned himself with.  And even if he did, how what could it matter to be loyal to something as intangible as a country?  Ergo, what could it matter if one was _not_ loyal?  No, what bothered Sherlock was the thought that his brother, whether he held him dear or not, was not what, not _who_ he thought he was. 

Was Sherlock _wrong_? 

To find out the answer he needed to go to his Mind Palace.  There was nothing specific he was looking for, which was usually his method, but it could not be helped in this instance.  He needed to search his memory to see if there were inconsistencies in who he thought Mycroft was, if there was an indication that Mycroft was a criminal, for this was something Sherlock could not abide.

* * *

 

John decided to head to the Tesco a mile further down the road instead of the one closer to home; he knew it would take more than a few minutes for Sherlock to find what he needed in his Mind Palace, that is, if he did.  He didn’t know what Sherlock would be searching for, though it did seem fairly obvious even to him that it concerned the emails that Sherlock received.  

Arriving back the flat, the grocery bags clattering against the door as he went through it, he saw Sherlock up and dressed in his normal uniform of a tailored suit and shirt with just-buffed leather shoes, sitting in his chair with his violin in hand as he plucked lightly at the strings; Sherlock gave no indication he heard John come home, not a turn of the head, not a blink of an eye.

Without saying a word, John put the food away and went to sit at his laptop on the desk; he knew it was best not to disturb Sherlock when he was working. 

He hadn’t updated his blog in a number of days; he had made sure Sherlock had no open cases to work on going into the wedding.  The last thing he had wanted was to go poking around some dead body on their honeymoon. 

The blog inbox held a healthy number of well wishes that had come in from readers before their impending matrimony; the day after it filled with far more entries concerning the bombing.   But he didn’t have the heart right then to answer them, he didn’t want to address the interruption of their wedding as he would any impersonal case.  He didn’t want to talk about the day that had started out so full of happiness and had then dissolved into a major fiasco.  Without a husband for either one of them.  Anyway, he knew he couldn’t start writing about that day without darkening it with the thoughts that were so intricately entwined with the following day. 

No, instead of his blog he logged onto a private online journal.  Private even from Sherlock.  He felt it a newsworthy miracle that Sherlock had not found this other blog; ever since becoming flatmates he had known he had no expectation of privacy even with a password protected computer.  As far as he knew, Sherlock didn’t go searching for anything, it was just that John’s laptop was often handier, but one could never know what Sherlock might accidentally stumble onto, so he didn’t keep it in a file folder.

His index fingers poised over the keyboard as he was about to peck out his entry, he heard his name.

“John,” Sherlock uttered.

John turned his head back towards Sherlock to give his attention to whatever else would be coming; there was nothing but the continued soft plucks of the violin strings.  He couldn’t help but smile; it reminded him that even when Sherlock was deep in thought, as he was then, John presence was always there within him, an integral part of the detective’s being.

Returning to his journal, the smile left his face as he remembered what he had been about to write.  He knew he was by no means a great writer, but he didn’t have any need to be.  He wasn’t planning on trying to make a living from it, he just needed to get some things off his chest that he couldn’t put to voice. 

_Integral parts of each other.  That’s what I thought we were, now I’m not so sure.   Our relationship hasn’t always been an easy one, we have a lot of misunderstandings just because we’re so different, but they pass quickly, as if they hadn’t even happened.  This time though the git really cocked up._

John paused, it was hard enough to _think_ the words, he didn’t know if he could commit the physical act of typing them.  He inhaled deeply. 

_He gave his wedding ring back, just put it back in the fucking box without telling me and now I feel like I’ve been cracked in two.  If he can do something like that without talking to me first, I just don’t know.  It might have been too, just too much.  He can’t think that he can just do something like that, say SORRY, and everything’s magically sorted, because it isn’t.  It’s_

The hurt and rage and sorrow that John was letting flow from his heart, through his fingers, to the keyboard, shut out the world around him.  Caused him to miss the fact that the soft pings of the violin had stopped.  Caused him to miss the fact that Sherlock had come to stand behind him, looking over his shoulder at the computer screen. 

John felt the hand on his shoulder and froze.  Sherlock.  He knew it was too late to close the lid, to shield Sherlock’s eyes from what he had written.  He sat still, his eyes fixed straight ahead, not knowing what to say.  Not knowing what Sherlock would say.

John had time to take three slow, steadying breaths before a word was spoken.

“You’re angry, John.”  Sherlock’s voice was soft but sure.

“Yes. Yes I am.”

“But.  But you’ve been acting normal since you came home this morning.”

“I’ve been trying to, yes.” A curt nod of his head accentuated his words.

Sherlock took his hand from John and moved beside him where he crouched down, leaning his arms on his legs, to look up at the beloved face that he never again wanted to see unhappy. 

“Why?”

“ _Why_?” John repeated Sherlock’s question.

“Yes.  Why have you been hiding the fact that you are so angry with me?”

“What good would it do to tell you, Sherlock?  We both know that you think sentiment is ‘inconvenient’, and that even if you _would_ want to talk about how you feel you are almost physically incapable of doing so.  So I decided I would just act like everything’s okay until it is.  Or not.”  He shrugged.  “I’ll work it out myself.”

John finally turned his head so he could look at Sherlock full on.  “Besides,” he said, seeming almost regretful, “I don’t think I would be able to live without you, so I might as well carry on until things get better again, until I don’t think you’re going to…going to leave,” he managed to get out. 

Sherlock could tell John was not feeling self-pity; he knew that even when the doctor was at his lowest there was nothing weak about him.  He studied John’s face, soberly trying to divine what he could do or say to bring some relief to the tension he saw there, coming up with nothing.

“What would you have me do, John?  I can’t be something I’m not.”

“I don’t need you to be anything or anyone else, Sherlock, you are perfect as you are.  Absolutely perfect. But if I could ask for one thing, just _one_ thing, it would be that you _talk_ to me when something is bothering you.”

Raising an eyebrow, Sherlock nodded toward the computer and said, “Like you did?”

John grimaced ruefully, “Touché.”

“You say you’re afraid I’m going to leave you.  Did I leave you?  Even after I put the ring away, did I walk out of the flat?”

“Ah, well, no… but when left to meet Greg you didn’t come home.”

“I didn’t come home?  I seem to recall coming home and waiting for _you_ because you weren’t here.”

“Don’t twist things around, Sherlock.  Technically speaking, no you didn’t leave me, not that way, but you did leave _without_ me, which is almost the same thing.   And, you didn’t come home until, well, I don’t know what time, but I _do_ know it wasn't until the wee hours of the morning.”  His frustration getting the better of him, “Sod this.  I’m not going to get into some semantics game with you, because we both know very well that I’m not going to win.  The point of it all is that you, well, you left me…” he paused, searching for the right way to put it.  How could he explain it so Sherlock would understand?

“Remember the night you found me unconscious in the burning house?”  John saw Sherlock’s face go pale, slightly ashamed even in his anger to make this man he cared so much about recall the terror he had felt that night, but John had to somehow make Sherlock see what he had put him through.

Lips pursed, Sherlock nodded, not wanting to look at John. 

Gently, John continued.  “You knew I was there and yet you were afraid I wasn’t… (he couldn’t bring himself to add ‘alive’), you thought I might be taken from you at any moment.”  Looking at Sherlock, he could see that his words were having the affect he needed them to; he could see that Sherlock was vividly reliving that night, remembering the fear that had coursed through him.  “ _That’s_ how I felt Sherlock.  I didn’t know whether or not you were walking out, but I was so afraid I had lost you; it was like a death to me.  And that fear still sits with me.  Not as intense as it did last night, but it won’t go away anytime soon, not until I know that you aren’t going to put us in that position again, until I know I can trust you to _talk_ to me about things before making a decision all by yourself that could cause us to be apart…forever.”

John ached with the memory of seeing the unspeakable panic on Sherlock’s face when he had woken up after blacking out and had been pulled from the fire.  Jesus, how could he have not known _then_ that Sherlock was in love with him?  Mr.-Know-it-All-I-Have-No-Time-for-Sentiment had nearly lost it because his flatmate _,_ his _flatmate,_ might have died in the fire (the _flatmate_ he followed everywhere). 

Brought back to the present by a movement against him, John nearly came undone when Sherlock lowered himself to kneel on the floor, wrapped his arms around John’s hips and rested his cheek in his lap in total supplication. 

_Jesus Christ, John thought.  What am I supposed to do with this man?  First he rips my heart apart with hurt and before I have time to turn around he rips my heart apart with so much goddamn love I can hardly.  fucking.  breathe._

Closing his eyes, he lived in the moment, stroking his hand through Sherlock’s hair, allowing the repetition to soothe the distressing memories. Sherlock remained motionless, seeming to find a sense of peace in their communion; for that, John was thankful.

The tranquility lasted for an even shorter time than he thought it would, for John found that much to his embarrassment, he had a, well, a burgeoning erection. Christ. Hoping Sherlock wouldn’t notice (as though _that_ was likely), he didn’t take his attention from Sherlock’s curls, didn’t take his hand from the arm that was holding him so snugly. 

No…nope.  Not working.

“Uh, Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“I know you’re not the most observant of people, John, but surely even you must know what I’m doing.”

Yes, John had no doubt what Sherlock was doing, had no doubt that the gentle rubbing of that cheekbone back and forth, back and forth at the apex of his crotch was going to drive him slightly mad.

“Uh, Sherlock, are you sure you don’t want to stop that, love?”  John was conflicted in that while he was so very much enjoying the attention, it wasn’t quite _right_ somehow, that somehow he was taking advantage of the vulnerability he had instilled in Sherlock with talk of the near-death experience.

“Yes, John, I’m sure,” Sherlock’s low rumble seared into his brain.  Sometimes John wasn’t quite sure he wouldn’t be able to come just listening to that… _voice._

* * *

 

Contrary to his words, Sherlock did stop.  Lifting himself from John and standing up, he took John’s hand, the doctor following as he led him the few feet to his chair. Sherlock sat down, and parting his legs, pulled John towards him.  Sherlock looked up at John, at the eyes that mesmerized him as almost nothing else could, intuitively knowing that they spoke his language, understood and accepted him as none others did. Not needing to look at what he was doing, with practiced ease, he unbuckled John’s belt.  Loosening it from around the slim waist, he let the jeans fall down into a mass at John’s feet, the sound of the buckle’s clinking, metal-on-metal, giving evidence of its descent.    

Sherlock kept his eyes locked on John’s, seducing him with an unspoken promise.  His hands still warm from when he had held them close to John’s body, in perfect symmetry he reached under the bottom edges of John’s pants and cupped each cheek of the firm arse, the nerve endings of his fingers alive with longing. Only then, only as Sherlock pulled John closer into the sanctuary of his thighs, did he break his gaze. 

He loved John.  He loved all of John in every way he could.  And putting everything out of his mind, even, especially, the situation with Mycroft, he left nothing in his mind but John, nothing but what he wanted to do.  Right now.

His mouth hot and moist, Sherlock caressed the cotton fabric that encased John’s cock, the cock that swelled in its welcome.  His hands firmly kneaded the rounded flesh he held, first slowly, then with more urgency…then slowing again, his mouth moving in tandem with his hands, all the while intensely aware of the heightening  response of the man he held in his hands. 

Even had he not been wearing clothing, Sherlock would not have felt the fingers piercing into his shoulders, the connection that seemed to be the only lifeline between John and sanity, so focused was he on giving John the pleasure he so wanted, so needed to give him. Pulling one hand out of its cocoon, Sherlock brought it to the front of the waistband, sliding the elastic down, sliding it down to expose the flesh he fiercely wanted to touch his lips to… without any barrier. To Sherlock, this was the most intimate he could get with John. Had he had the ability, to crawl inside John’s brain with him without doing permanent damage, that would have been the ultimate intimacy.  But since that was not a possibility, this would have to do.  This _did_ do.

John’s moan told him that he was succeeding in his plan, spurring him to increase the intensity, spurring him to show his lover, in one of the only ways he knew he was able, how very important he was to him.  Pulling the pants further down, down to the middle of his thighs, Sherlock took John all the way into his mouth; his lips firmly grasping the shaft, he pulled them back up and attended to the bulbous tip…..sucking, sucking, tonguing, gratified by the almost inhuman sound that erupted out of John’s chest cavity.

The slight undulation of John’s hips told Sherlock that he wanted to thrust, but Sherlock wasn’t ready for that yet.  He wasn’t done loving John yet, he needed to let John know that what he had told him had not gone unheard. 

Had not gone unfelt.

Sherlock poured his heart out, giving John pleasure in the most explicit way he knew how, plunging his lips down and back up the hardness. Again. Faster.  Faster.

As he felt John’s body start to tremble, Sherlock paused his mouth, and without removing its warmth, reached up and stuck his middle finger in the wet mouth above him that held onto it with desperation, sucking it, slicking it with its want.

Cupping his lover’s arse once again, from below Sherlock found the crease down the middle, dipped his wet finger inside of John, pressing in until John gasped from the sheer force of sensation that overtook him.

“Christ!” 

Sounding almost as though he was using the last breathe of his body, John growled again, “FUCK!”, as Sherlock finally took mercy on him and allowed him to thrust.  Again.  And again.  “Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” John moaned as he  thrust a final time between Sherlock's lips, spilling his fluid in a rush, clamping onto the finger that still resided in him.  One hand gripping Sherlock’s shoulder, the other his head, with what little awareness he had left he focused on the herculean effort of remaining upright.

Sherlock fought against the urge to gag, not wanting John to feel the slightest rejection.  Finished with swallowing the bitter, salty come, and licking clean the now-softening cock, Sherlock succeeded in re-dressing John before the spent man very nearly collapsed on him. 

As Sherlock held John against him on his lap, the lovers wound around each other as much as was physically possible in the constricted space of Sherlock’s chair, he knew had never felt more vulnerable.  Yet, quite possibly due that vulnerability, he was vibrantly aware of how much he trusted John, knew that John would never hurt him.  

He felt safe.

Sherlock had that odd moment where he thought of his heart not in terms of membranes and corpuscles, but as the very core of who he was.  Was with John.  Resting his head on John’s, he murmured into the silver-streaked hair, “I won’t ever leave you.  Ever.”   With only a little hesitation, he softly added, “I love you, John.”

In return for opening his heart, for laying himself bare before his lover, Sherlock was rewarded with a smile. A smile and blue eyes so bright and warm they would put the sun to shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, it may be a couple weeks or so until the next chapter~ I am quite ecstatic to say I'm off to London (and Liverpool!) in a week for vacation. *Happy dance*


	8. Proposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting so long for this chapter. My trip to London was everything I hoped for and much, much more!

It wasn't three minutes before the restlessness, the boredom, of doing NOTHING, got to Sherlock and he started fidgeting. True, he was able to be more still with John than would seem within the realm of possibility, but that didn't mean he could remain still _all_  the time he was with John.  He’d never get anything done.  
  
John sighed.  Well, _that_ had been nice, he thought. Understanding his lover’s need to get back to work, he started to slide off of Sherlock.  
  
“Mycroft is not a spy.”  Sherlock said, seemingly out of nowhere.  
  
“Hold on to that thought, will you? Ouch, Jesus,” John complained at the Charlie horse that was taking hold of his leg.  
  
His face not registering a response to John’s distress, Sherlock nonetheless situated himself so he could reach John’s foot, tilting it firmly up towards the leg while the John squirmed. He kept talking as he massaged the calf.  
  
“As I said, Mycroft is not a spy. I applied the same process as I did when I determined that you do indeed love me. It took me longer to come to a conclusion than it did with you, but then, of course, he and I have been acquainted (‘Aquainted?!’ John thought) much longer so there was quite a bit of memory backlog to sift through. While he _is_ quite secretive and has his hand in many a subversive, if not questionable act, he is not anti-government.  I took the timelines of when he has traveled and the items he packed when he made those trips, comparing them to the international destinations and global and domestic conferences regarding security and anti-terrorism matters, and came to the conclusion that he is second in command of the Joint Intelligence Committee. It is purely an administrative position, but an important one…if you find something like that important.”  He waived his hand dismissively.  
  
He stretched John’s foot one more time, and seeing John’s face had stopped contorting in agony, asked “Better?”  
  
“Yeah, much, thank you.” John relaxed again, the cramping gone. Rubbing his leg to rid himself of the remaining soreness, “How do you know what he packs on his trips? I can’t imagine _that_ being a topic of conversation at your holiday dinners.”  He paused, Sherlock’s words suddenly catching up with him. “Wait a minute, you what?!  You had to DEDUCE that I love you?” John shook his head in bewilderment. He wasn’t sure he would ever get used to how out of sync Sherlock was with the rest of humanity, how differently he thought and acted. Were he to be honest with himself, he knew he would never want to get used to it.  
  
Patiently, Sherlock explained to John that while yes, he felt he had always felt that John loved him, save for the unfortunate incident with the ring, feelings are not a reliable indicator of the truth. And when he had felt that doubt, he had searched his memories for any hint of deception; no one could carry off that type of a ruse over a sustained period of time at such close proximity without clues to the contrary. “So yes, I deduced that you love me and reassured myself that I have no cause for doubt on that matter,” stating this as though it were a perfectly natural way of determining whether or not love was present.   
  
John’s bewilderment grew.  Did Sherlock really just _patiently_   explain it to him?   No snideness, no arrogance, no condescension…not even a hint of these things?  He hadn’t realized he had gotten so used to being, well, talked down to, that the lack of any of those elements would be so astounding.  So…pleasant.  Coupled with the generosity and gentleness he had just seen on display, not to mention the humbly declared ‘I love you’, visions of the Body Snatchers circled his brain. John shook his head; he knew he shouldn't have watched that horror movie marathon on the telly last week. John, peered intently at Sherlock's eyes~ gaze steady, pupils normal size, he was fidgety, but that was nothing unusual~ he didn’t _look_ like he’d taken any drugs. Not that he’d ever known Sherlock to take any kind of drugs, prescription or otherwise, though he had heard of a history the illicit kind.  
  
He held back the impulse to check Sherlock's forehead…something was just not right here. He chuckled to himself at the irony that hit him: he thought perhaps Sherlock was ill when he acted normal.  Well, normal by the world's standards.  
  
No. No, something else was going on.   
  
He was about to ask what, when Sherlock beat him to it, “Something wrong?”  
  
“Ah, no. Everything’s just fine. Just fine.” Those were the words that left John’s mouth, but he couldn’t help but think that things weren’t “just fine”; he was going to have to watch Sherlock more closely than usual (which was pretty damn close) to see if he could figure out what was going on, for it had long been his belief that Sherlock did little without motive. And he had every intention of figuring out just what it was that Sherlock was up to, what he wanted.  
  
John changed the subject.  “So where were we? You were about to tell me how you know what Mycroft packs when he goes out of town.”  
  
Noting that John had been examining him, Sherlock gave him a sideways look for a moment to see if any more oddities were going to appear, and seeing none, proceeded to answer John’s query. “Yes.  Mycroft’s housekeeper was part of my homeless network; we keep in touch.”  
  
Setting aside the fact that Sherlock had all these informants he knew nothing about despite being at his side practically 24 hours a day, he said, “So you know what Mycroft wears in his travels, but you don’t know that he’s second in command at the Joint Intelligence Committee.  Not like _that_ might be pertinent information.”  John couldn’t help but roll his eyes.  
  
“I’ve never found it to be relevant what he does for a living, no.”  
  
“Oh no, the fact that he has responsibility for the safety of the country you live in, no, no, I can see how that couldn’t matter a bit.”  
  
“Exactly, John.  It doesn’t.”  
  
“So why would your mysterious informant, the one that sent you the email, tell you Mycroft is a double agent, then?”  
  
“That I don’t know, I haven’t gotten that far.  Yet. I’ve been…busy. As you well know.”   
  
Had John been the blushing type, his cheeks would have reddened at the reference to just what had been keeping Sherlock ‘busy’, but since he wasn’t, instead he decided it was time to let Sherlock get back to his deductions.   
  
The rest of the evening John spent online catching up with patient case notes he hadn’t finished in the flurry of last-minute wedding plans. He would have gotten more done had he not been interrupted twice by Sherlock bringing him tea and biscuits and once to give John an impromptu neck message. He had to confess the last interruption had been quite nice.   
  
The fourth time Sherlock came over to him in less than three hours, however, John couldn’t take it anymore.  
  
“What’s up with you?! Why do you keep hovering over me like, like, Mrs. _Hudson_ in warp speed?” John demanded, frustrated. He wasn’t angry, but he found it immensely disconcerting for Sherlock to be quite so...attentive. It was so unlike the detective that he felt as though he was spending the evening with someone he’d never met, and he didn't want to meet anyone new, he liked Sherlock just fine.  
  
He instantly regretted his words and tone. “I’m sorry, love,” he said to the face that had almost been smiling.  Almost.  Now it was mostly looking confused. And confused was not a comfortable look for a man who was always so certain in everything he did.   
  
“You didn’t like the tea and biscuits?”  Sherlock asked, perplexed.  
  
“Yes.  Yes I did.”  
  
“You didn’t like the massage, then.”  He was clearly out of his depth in this particular deduction.  
  
“Well, yes I did. Very much, yes.”  
  
“Then what is the matter? What upset you?” Sherlock looked genuinely confused.  
  
“Nothing, love. Nothing at all.” John sighed. There was no use trying to explain something he didn’t understand himself.  He went back to his case notes while Sherlock turned his attention back to his laptop, unable to concentrate on the screen in front of him.  
  
\---------  
  
Sherlock stared at his screen, unable to figure out what was getting John so peevish; after all, isn't that what John did for him when he was working?   Try to feed him up, try to relax the muscles sore from stooping over his laptop? And _he_ didn't get peevish, did he?   
  
Oh. Right.   
  
He did remember that on occasion John would give him one of his stern looks, apparently because he didn't like being told in no uncertain terms "Leave me be! This is a delicate experiment that can’t be interrupted!"  More than once feeling vaguely uncomfortable for the tone he had come to conclude had been harsh.  
  
No, this was harder than it looked. When he had decided that he would follow John's lead in the relationship (a fair division of labor he thought, what with his leading their investigations), he had thought it would be easy. But as relatively simple as it was to bring tea to John, he hadn't realized the difficult part would be timing; clearly, that was what was at issue. He would have to think about this, for the purpose wasn't to upset John, which he had. Obviously.  He changed the timer intervals on his watch.  
  
For two days, Sherlock worked practically nonstop. Doing research on his computer, making trips to Scotland Yard, the occasional assignation with one of his homeless network.  It was all part of gathering the data he needed to figure what Mycroft’s connection was to the bombers, even if it was solely by implication.   
  
During those two days, John made some observations of his own. It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to make sure he ate when they were out working on a case, but it was an unusual occurrence at home.  But now, at almost regular intervals of 3 hours and 34 minutes during waking hours, Sherlock would bring him a cuppa, or a bite to eat, asking him if he was hungry.  The detective didn't make a fuss of it, he would quietly bring him the tray, waiting expectantly until John either partook of the offering or kindly said he wasn’t ready right then, after which Sherlock would resume his work.  Sherlock even took the precaution of arranging his outings so the regular intervals were not disrupted.

  
John didn't ask again what was going on, he just went along with the odd behavior as if it were the most natural thing in the world.  Actually, he thought it was rather sweet, sweet being a word he never thought he would associate with his lover. But whatever was going on, he was sure Sherlock would get over it and things would go back to normal soon. 

 

He could only hope.  
  
\------  
  
"Hello, Brother,"  
  
At Mycroft’s entrance into the flat, Sherlock took on the sullen demeanor of a teenager, with all the attendant eye-rolling and disaffectedness, though at a slighter degree than a teenager given the fact that he _was_ a grown adult.

 

"Hello, Mycroft. And to what do we owe this…." His hand gesturing vaguely at nothing, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to be more than barely polite; the fact that Mycroft had paid for their wedding had in no way warmed their tepid relationship.  Besides, his still not yet being married appeared to be in no small part due to Mycroft’s involvement, nefarious or not.

"I heard there was trouble in paradise...”  Mycroft looked down his nose at them, his umbrella never leaving his hand.

John shot a glance at Sherlock; surely he hadn't spoken to Mycroft about their private affairs. 

Ignoring John, Sherlock didn't miss a beat, “That is old news, Mycroft; do keep up. And how's Mummy?  I presume if she hasn't left already then she will posthaste; we both know how much she _enjoys_ staying at your abode."  
  
"She's already left on holiday to Spain.  _Do_ try to keep up.” Mycroft said, making no attempt to disguise his mockery.  
  
"What.  Without saying goodbye?  I’m crushed.  Her maternal instincts have always been so inspiring.”  
  
"Oh, don't worry, she'll be back. When the nuptials are re-scheduled. They _will_  be re-scheduled won't they?"  

  
“Of course, they will be,” Sherlock practically spat out. Reigning his emotions back in, he said somewhat disinterestedly, “We're waiting for the bomber to be apprehended; we don’t plan on having any uninvited guests next time ‘round.”  

John saw the rhythm of Sherlock's fingers skip a beat. He had no doubt Mycroft had, too.   
  
For the first time since Mycroft arrived, John interjected, having so far only nodded in greeting.  Sitting down on the arm of Sherlock's chair, adopting an air of calm assuredness, “Why there would be any question about that I have no idea.” He restrained himself from reaching for Sherlock's hand; he didn't want it to be a case of "the lady doth protest too much”, instead crossing his arms.  

It took all Sherlock had to not show his reaction to John’s statement; he wouldn’t give Mycroft the satisfaction.  But to hear John say with such certainty that they would still marry, he felt a profound sense of relief cut through him.  Ever since it had occurred to him to marry John, there had been nothing he had wanted more.  After nearly losing John, the thought of not marrying him left him near panic.  A life without John would be one without meaning.   
  
Mycroft crossed his legs, settling further in.  "So good to hear,” he said, the statement sounding as if it was a throwaway, as though they were words merely to fill the air while he formed the thought he really wanted to express.  “As you can imagine, to determine the status of your relationship is not the purpose of my visit. Though I find that rather...illuminating.  No, I loathe saying it, but I have come to enlist your assistance, dear brother.”  
  
Intrigued, Sherlock nonetheless downplayed his response. "What?  With the entire government at your beck and call?  I can’t imagine why you would need _my_ services."

  
Mycroft focused his attention on his Burberry umbrella, twirling it back and forth.  Finally he looked up at Sherlock.  "Let me just say, you possess certain…skills, that my agents do not.”  
  
"And what would you like me to do with my ‘certain skills’?” having no need to ask Mycroft to what he referred.  
  
Cocking his head, Mycroft told him, “I need you to infiltrate the terror group that set the bomb at your wedding, to gather information so we can shut them down once and for all.” 

John sat up straighter, now even more attentive to the exchange.  He did not like where this was headed.  

“And why do you think I can do what your agents haven’t been able to do in 5 years?”  Sherlock’s tone clearly indicated that Mycroft’s agents must be incompetent if they couldn’t complete such a simple task as capturing a few feeble-minded thugs. 

Mycroft sighed.  “Because, dear brother, you’re the only person I know who can go in without all the gadgetry spies seem to need these days and still find out what we need to know.  Technology can be quite useful, but I do find on occasion it can be a handicap.  This particular group is well-equipped enough to ferret out any apparatus my people have on them, no matter how state of the art.”  

John took a quick look at Sherlock, not liking the light in his eyes that said the idea excited him.  John didn’t know whether the excitement came from the idea of having the opportunity to play spy, or from the possibility of showing he could outsmart a terrorist group when Mycroft’s British government could not. 

He leaned forward, asking Mycroft, “Just _how_ dangerous would this mission be?” 

Mycroft had the decency to break eye contact as he carefully considered his words.  Looking back at John, “I won’t try to insult you by lying; it could be quite dangerous.  Make no mistake, this is not a group of Boy Scouts.  They have killed before and they will kill again if we don’t stop them.  Be assured that I will do everything within my power to keep your fiancée safe.”  

John persisted, pointedly asking, “But if you can’t assure you can keep your own agents safe, why do you think you can keep an unarmed man safe?”  Finally, instinctively, John reached for Sherlock, finding his hand and intertwining their fingers, holding tight to hedge against the growing fear that Sherlock would not be deterred from fighting a potentially deadly battle that wasn’t his to fight.   

 “You would have to do this without John,” Mycroft cautioned, this time speaking to the detective.  “It would be difficult enough to integrate you alone into the organization, but to try to get the both of you in would be severely compromise the mission.”

 Silent, Sherlock stroked his fingers along his lips as he contemplated the proposition. 

* * *

 

Mycroft left the flat, but not before Sherlock told Mycroft he would “think about it” and Mycroft replied he needed to have an answer.  Soon.

 No sooner did the door shut then Sherlock allowed his tightly wound excitement to escape him.  Pacing around the flat, his eyes were alight with elation at the prospect of infiltrating an active terrorist group.

 John, still sitting on the arm of Sherlock’s chair watched with sick fascination.  He couldn’t hold his silence any longer.

 “No, Sherlock.  Just…no,” his tone adamant.

 Quickly pacing the room for several more minutes, Sherlock abruptly came to a stop as though he had just heard John.   His hands steepled at his mouth, he dipped his head and fixed his eyes on John wordlessly.

 “No.”  John repeated, unrepentantly.

 “ _No_?” 

 “NO.” 

 “Since when do I have to ask permission to take a case?”  Sherlock asked, defiant.

 “Since we agreed you don’t get to make decisions by yourself that could end our relationship,” John answered, the force of his resolve making him seem bigger than he was. 

 “No, _we_ didn’t decide that, _you_ did.  Anyway, I don’t see how this could end our relationship.” 

 “This isn’t some stolen art piece or some bloody murder for you to solve.  These are people that fucking _kill_ for a living, Sherlock.  If they find out you’re not who they think you are, they won’t think twice before killing you.”

 John wouldn’t have been able to count how many times he had been annoyed with Sherlock since he had known him.   But this, _this_ was beyond his comprehension, how this man he had chosen as his life partner could be so infuriatingly thick-headed, especially on so serious a matter.

 “So how could this end our relationship?” he asked Sherlock, not waiting for an answer. 

 “You tell _me_ how we are to carry on if you’re dead.”


	9. Epiphany

At almost the same moment as John said “You tell _me_ how we are to carry on if you’re dead,” the alarm on Sherlock’s watch went off, vibrating against his wrist.  It startled him out of the near manic state he had found himself in, caught between the excitement he felt over Mycroft’s proposition and the argument he and John had begun to engage in.

 _John_.

How could he have forgotten so quickly his desire to please John, his newfound pledge to let John guide their relationship?  And that was exactly what John was talking about, their relationship.  

His hands still against his lips, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply.  With a rush, their time together fled through his mind…. meeting at St. Bart’s, _knowing_ John that first time he caught sight of him after he killed the cabbie, John’s unquestioning belief in the detective’s deductive powers, nearly losing him in the fire, almost destroying their relationship over the “I Owe You So Much” he discovered in his wedding ring. 

Making love. 

Stupid.  STUPID.

Opening his eyes, Sherlock saw, really _saw_ the mixture of love and pain on John’s features, clearly fearing something might take Sherlock away from him, forever.  He saw the lines around John’s eyes that would crinkle when he smiled.  He saw the blue eyes that would shine with pride whenever Sherlock made a particularly clever (or not) deduction.  His eyes resting on John’s lips, he could almost feel the warmth and softness he had felt on his mouth and body a thousand times.  His fingers remembered the softness of John’s hair as he would stroke it while John slept, the shiny strands sometimes mesmerizing him for hours on end.

All of his life it had been all about being clever, about besting everyone else, about solving the case…

…until he met John.

And even then, John was always by his side, always the best helpmate he could be to Sherlock in his work.  There had never been the need to make the choice between The Work.  And John.

Not until now. 

* * *

 

John let his words hang in the air.  He didn’t know how to make it more clear to Sherlock that as important as _the work_ was, some things were more important.  They were more important.  And if Sherlock went on this mad mission there very possibly would not be a Them _._  Not anymore. 

He loved Sherlock like he had never loved anyone.  He had never known he _could_ love someone as he did the man standing in front of him.  And as sodding stupid as it sounded, he loved Sherlock more than life itself.

Silently, he watched Sherlock think.  Watched as he struggled.  With what, he didn’t know.  He prayed to god that Sherlock was re-considering his choice, but he’d known him too long to think that something as enticing as what Mycroft had offered would be put to the side for something as… inconsequential as a relationship.  A lover.  A husband.

John saw Sherlock open his eyes, intently looking at him.  What did he see? He knew Sherlock was looking at someone whose heart was in the process of breaking, someone who was beginning to grieve for the loss of the one thing that made them want to get up every morning, eager for the day ahead.  

He looked at Sherlock’s unblinking eyes as they narrowed in on him and prepared himself for the worst.  

As those beautiful lips began to part, opened to speak the words that John knew without a doubt meant a death of another sort, there was a void of sound that made John uncertain if he had lost his ability to hear.

Christ.

* * *

 

Sherlock could sense John’s fear more than he could see it, and he had never felt more penitent than he did at that moment.  He knew he was the cause of that fear.  And just as much, he knew this good man, this _good_ , kind, noble man did not deserve to feel that kind of fear because of him.  That kind of fear because his selfish, yes, _selfish_ partner might choose a case over him. 

There had been many cases in his life, and there would be many more, but there would be, could be, only one John Watson.

It turned out to be very simple after all. 

He chose John.

* * *

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.  He could barely tell John he loved him; how could he tell him that to be without him would make everything that had ever meant anything, mean nothing.  Nothing, if John was not by his side?  Even with his vast vocabulary he couldn’t put into words something words couldn’t begin to describe.

“Tea?  A biscuit, perhaps?  Are you hungry?”  These were the words that finally came out of Sherlock’s mouth.

Now it was John’s turn to mouth wordlessly.  Had the git gone mad?  Why was he asking about tea?  _Now_ ?!

“Aaah, no.  No, not hungry.”  Something registered in John’s brain and despite himself, because this really, _really_  wasn’t important right now, he asked, “Is that what your alarm is about, feeding me up?  This is the first time I heard it go off.”

Sherlock nodded, uncertain if he had done the wrong thing.  He’d only done it to remind himself to think about John, to try to do what John did for him~ take care of him.

John could see the uncertainty on Sherlock’s face.  He looked almost… embarrassed.  Maybe this _was_ important.  He licked his lips and spoke.

“You set your alarm so you would be reminded to feed me?” he asked, suddenly overwhelmed with the enormity of what this seemingly simple gesture meant.  Sherlock was trying to… _take care_ of him.  And Sherlock Holmes didn’t take care of _anyone._   Barely even himself.

Sherlock nodded again, fighting the impulse to look away.  He really had to come up with something else.  Offering tea would not tell John how much he meant to him.  What else would John want?  What else would tell John that he was more important than anything else in his world? 

Oh.

“John, I…”  He paused.  Not because he was second-guessing himself, but because he was afraid, yes, afraid that it wouldn’t do what he wanted his words to do.  How could he tell John about the butterflies that still fluttered inside him whenever he looked at him across the breakfast table?  How could he explain to John about how his heart stopped beating whenever he his beloved doctor looked at him with hunger in his eyes?   

Seeing John watching him expectantly, noting that his face was becoming more relaxed (why?), Sherlock finished what he had started to say. 

“John, I won’t go.  You think it is too dangerous and I trust your instincts.  I will stay.”  There, he said it.  It seemed vastly insufficient, but it was all he had to give.  Looking at John, looking into his eyes, he became alarmed, for his lover’s eyes were becoming suspiciously moist.  Had he ‘cocked it up’?  Again? 

John moved towards him and taking his hands, looked at Sherlock’s face with a wonder as if he had never seen it before.  All the beauty, all the brilliance.   All the humanity that too often was hidden.

“No, love.  You go.”

“But, you…”

“No, I won’t stand in your way.”  John shook his head, convinced now that this was the right thing to do.   He lifted Sherlock’s hand and pressed his lips to it, allowing them to linger as they felt the life-force there. 

“This is what makes you who you are and I won’t think of taking that away from you.”  Just the very fact that Sherlock was willing to give up something so important for him, _him_ , was enough to tell him everything he needed to about Sherlock’s heart.  “Loving you means I need to support you in what you need to do.  I will be here when you return,” he said, holding Sherlock’s eyes with his own, resolute.

“No.”

Now John was confused again. “No?  You don’t want me to be here when you get back?” he asked, a frown on his face.

“No, I don’t.  Because either we do this together or I don’t go.”  The side of his mouth quirked up in delight at his own idea. “It _will_ be dangerous, John, but who better to watch my back than you?  I would be lost without you.” 

“But Mycroft said it would compromise the mission if I went; it would make it more dangerous for you, Sherlock,” the concern clear on John’s face.

Hands still firmly grasped in each other’s, Sherlock’s eyes bright as they locked with John’s, “As clever as I am, and we know that is very clever, with you by my side we will be practically be invincible; you are a great reflector of light, John.”

John knew that was meant as praise, as encouragement to go along, but he was still unsure; he didn’t want to endanger Sherlock’s life any more than it would be.  But…he could be there to help protect the detective; there was no one more invested in keeping Sherlock safe.  Not ever Sherlock.

Sherlock could see John thinking about his offer, could see the moment John agreed ~ he didn’t have to say the words, it was written on his face.  Sherlock could feel the sense of anticipation rise within himself again.

“Good!  That’s settled then.  We’re in this together.”  Together.  It did have a nice ring to it.

Sherlock cradled John’s face in his hand, “It’s been a long day.  You go get some rest and I’ll join you after I’ve talked to Mycroft and we’ve created a plan to gain access to the group.” 

“I’d be happy to help, but If you’re sure…” John offered half-heartedly as he stifled a yawn. 

“Yes, I’m sure.  Let me take care of this part.  We need to go in as well-prepared as possible if we’re to get back to Baker St. safely.  Then, then maybe we can see to a wedding.”  He added the last hesitantly, not convinced John still wanted to marry him.  But when John kissed his palm and then tenderly, his lips, he felt invincible. With John by his side they could do anything.  Anything.

They would take down this terrorist organization and then, _then_ , they would marry.

 He was certain of it.

* * *

 

Confident in the plan he and Mycroft had developed, just before dawn Sherlock finally lifted the covers and slid into bed, pressing his length up against the back of John.  Lying there in the circle of warmth, feeling the fine down on John’s skin, unconsciously his breathing slowed to match that of the sleeping man’s.  His mind relaxed into a haze just on the cusp of sleep, but he was still awake. 

His mind wandered, enveloped with the completeness that could only be found when feeling totally connected with someone in body and soul; even though he wouldn’t have been able to name it as such.  He didn’t know how it had happened, didn’t know how John had understood what he had been trying to tell him, that John was his whole world and he  was just fine with it.  Just fine.  But that was the thing about John that he had never known with anyone else; John _knew_ him, even without words.  Knew his needs, knew his desires, and confoundingly, amazingly, seemed to love him not despite who he was, but _because_ of who he was. 

In the dark, he felt a hand reach back and lay itself on his leg.  John.  He could feel the imprint of John’s palm where the heat of it touched him.  Life and warmth and love.  That was what John was.

Sherlock heard his voice, soft with sleepiness.  “You alright, love?”

Still overcome with the wave of emotion he had been feeling, it took Sherlock a few moments to steady his breath, to find a coherent thought and put it into words.  His head nestling further down the safety of John’s back, he managed to respond.  “Yes.  I was just thinking.”

The palm on his leg rubbed slowly back and forth.  Soothing.

“Of course, you were,” John said without a trace of incrimination.  “You and Mycroft got things figured out then?  We’re set to go?”

For once, Sherlock didn’t want to talk about work.  He just wanted to be. Be with John.  He wasn’t naïve; he knew this going to be the most dangerous case they’d ever taken and there was no guarantee one or both of them would make it out alive.  He hoped that if one of them didn’t make it, it would be him. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if his actions brought John to harm. 

With no reply forthcoming, John rolled over, now facing Sherlock, wrapping his arm over him to rub his back.  Though Sherlock liked to put a mask on to the world, one that said “You can’t touch me,” John knew that his love did entertain doubts.  Did have fears that sometimes shook him.   

John breathed softly against Sherlock’s skin as he reassured him.  “We’ll be just fine sweetheart.  If there is anyone clever enough to outwit those twits, it’s you.  You are amazing.  Absolutely amazing.  In all ways.”  The truth of these simple statements needed no embellishment.   

He kissed Sherlock’s chest, moistening his lips with the fine beads of sweat that had accumulated there from where the heat of their skin had bonded before John turned over. 

John’s words brought back the sobering reality of what they would be facing, possibly before the day had ended.  “We might not come back home, John,” Sherlock’s inflectionless tone giving the words more impact than they might otherwise have had.

“I know.”  The hand that had been on Sherlock’s back moved to smooth along the beloved features of his face.  How could he tell Sherlock that it really didn’t matter, not as long as they were together? 

“No matter what happens, Sherlock, the important thing is we’ve got each other.  I love you.  Always have, always will, until death we do part.  It’s as simple as that.”  John couldn’t help but impishly add, “All the rest is transport.”

Sherlock chuckled, “It is, isn’t it.” 

As John pulled the covers off himself, he felt Sherlock latch onto his wrist.  “Where are you going?  Stay here with me,” the deep voice half asking, half commanding that John not go. 

“I’ll be right back,” John reassured, releasing his arm from the light restraint, giving a peck to Sherlock’s lips for good measure.

Sherlock frowned.  He didn’t want John to get up, he wanted to hold him and enjoy the newfound peace that had come to him when he realized the only thing to do was to put John first.  And when he had done that, what had John done?  Lovely, surprising John.  He had given back to Sherlock what he had sacrificed.  Incomprehensible.

Lying in bed he saw the dark form come back into the room and pause by the bedside table, turning on the light, its soft glow seeking out the dark corners of the room.  Seeking out the two faces that had only eyes for each other.

Sherlock held his eyes on John as he set the tube on the on the bed, pulled one leg out of his pants, letting them fall to the floor where he stepped out of the remaining leg, and climbed back onto the bed to straddle the detective’s hips.  He watched as John’s leaned over, his face growing closer until their lips met, mingling their breaths, soon taking his away as he melted into the mouth that he knew might someday be the death of him. 

Too quickly, John pulled away, but he didn’t go far; Sherlock closed his eyes as John kissed each lid with butterfly kisses.  Butterfly kisses on his jaw, his neck, his shoulder.  Sherlock sucked in a small breath as John’s teeth found his nipple, playfully biting it.  Sucking it.

A guttural sound escaped Sherlock’s lips, “John!”

John lifted his head, searching Sherlock’s face for distress.  Had he bitten too hard?

“No, John.  It’s fine, just fine. Don’t…stop….”

John resumed his path down the long, lean body, savoring everywhere his lips met flesh, pausing only when the covers that shielded his lover’s lower abdomen interrupted his journey. 

He pulled the covers off the god-like form, imagining it cast in marble, erected in a museum; he became jealous of his own mental image.  No one, _no_ one should be able to rest their eyes on this vision but him.  This masterpiece was his, his alone to marvel. 

His alone to possess.

The cool air of the room hit Sherlock as his covers were removed.  His eyes roamed over the solid soldier body that poised over him, the taut muscles, the scar from the trauma that had almost taken John away from him before they even met.  He pressed his eyes closed in defiance.  No.  He wouldn’t think of that now, there was no purpose in thinking about something that didn’t come to be. 

Opening them back up to watch what was going on, to watch the eyes dark with desire as John pulled first one long limb from the captivity of the duvet, then the other, adjusting them so the palms of his feet met the mattress. 

Starting to quiver, not from the cold, but from the warm fingers trailing up the his inner thighs, he watched in fascination as his own erection slowly ascended as if a divining rod, pointing toward the source of its pleasure.  

John was in no hurry, for he was mesmerized as well at the sight of Sherlock’s cock coming to life, seemingly of its volition.  Content with primarily stroking the thighs on each side of him, he occasionally reached down to kiss where he touched, careful not to make contact with Sherlock’s shaft.  He had absolutely no problem with the concept of literally driving his scientist mad with desire.   And to touch everywhere but that which begged to be touched was a good beginning, confirmed by Sherlock’s ragged breathing, the pre-come that was starting to crest at the now fully engorged cock. 

Picking up the tube, he opened it with his mouth, not interrupting the movement of his other hand.  Not until he reached for Sherlock’s hand and squirted a small amount of the gel on the long middle finger, sensuously covering it in fluid. 

What was John doing?…Sherlock puzzled, getting the idea of what was wanted as his hand was guided down between his own legs.  Looking at John’s face and reading “Trust me” there (he did, oh how he did), he paused along the way to prop himself up on his free arm.  He curled up on himself as John’s hand, wrapped around his, guided him past his erection towards his entrance, and with John’s gentle insistence, pushed his finger in.

The gasp that caused his mouth to fly open and steal his breath was replaced by John’s mouth.  Claiming, wanting, giving.  Nothing else existed.  Nothing else mattered.  Not one given to swearing or blasphemy, even in the height of sexual ecstasy, at this moment Sherlock’s mind started to go offline as it hypnotically chanted “John... _John…John…_ ” No matter how hard his chest rose and fell, no matter how deep his lungs sucked for air, he couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen.

Crouched between Sherlock’s legs, John kept his hand on the back of his lover’s finger, a reminder to keep it where it was, a reminder that not only was it okay for Sherlock to stimulate himself, but that it was what John wanted. It was Good.  John’s other hand continued to stroke the now violently trembling thigh, alternately trailing delicate fingertips at the base of the V in his lover’s groin, until he felt the thick warm come flow down to their hands, until he felt the salty tears reach lips that were still captured by Sherlock’s. 

His violent orgasm subsiding into smaller waves, his breathing returning towards something resembling normal, Sherlock’s mouth reluctantly parted ways with John’s as he collapsed onto his back, vaguely aware that John was cleaning up after their lovemaking…if that was an appropriate term for the act they had just engaged in. 

It wasn’t but a brief moment before John turned the light back out, lying down beside him as the covers fell over them once again.  His rubbery limbs were barely able to roll him over to face the smaller man, their arms wrapping around each other.

“You didn’t even touch me, John,” Sherlock murmured.

“Nope.”  

“That was, that was amazing,” Sherlock said, his incredulity evident even in the voice weary from physical exhaustion and lack of sleep.  He relaxed more deeply into the warmth that wrapped around him.  That reached inside him.

Their minds wiped clean of anything but the solace of being in each other’s arms, they fell asleep.  The cold, harsh world outside their room would have to wait. 

Reality would intrude soon enough.


	10. Morality

Few public buildings in London were as iconic as the Battersea Power Station.  To the uninformed, the empty building was an old warehouse that while not an eyesore, was taking up valuable land in the heart of the nation’s capital.  Land that, were the building razed, could be used to substantially increase wealth in the hands of the right land developer. To the knowledgeable individual, it was an architectural delight with the potential to reap even more millions of pounds if repurposed into a shopping mall or theme park.  Whatever its future, at the moment it was empty and useless, a somewhat derelict reminder of the days when coal was a declining source of electricity and the city turned to, unsuccessfully, generating power from biomass and waste.

When the explosion occurred, there were no witnesses to the two men who escaped the collapsing metal supports and flying bricks save the scattered nests of rats and a pack of feral dogs that had long ago forgotten what kindness a human being had to offer.  The blast was big enough to do significant damage to the east wall and loud enough to be heard by residents more than a mile away.  Many who heard news of the blast were astonished and curious, but none were overly surprised by the event; the building had been sitting empty for many years and rumors of the fuel still stored there made it less than surprising that something like this had happened.  Other than the commissioners and fire marshals, after a few days the incident was already a faint memory in the mind of those who had bothered to take notice in the first place.

* * *

 

The old man tried to shield himself from the cold, barely covered by the thin coat as he lay on the bench in the park.  Few people were out this time of night, the occasional dedicated jogger, the lovers that sought privacy in the dark, walking arm in arm slowly along the winding path.   Not that the man had much need of the coat, the bottle of whiskey he nipped at more than kept the fires burning in him.  He was lucky tonight, security was unusually light at Regents Park; usually when the darkness claimed the day, he was hustled out of the park, told in no uncertain terms to leave…the park was closed for the night.  But not tonight. Tonight the park was preternaturally quiet.  Even the students at the school seemed to have made an unspoken pact to stay in.

For whatever reason it was that he was left alone that night, the old man was not displeased; he liked having the park mostly to himself.  Liked having uninterrupted time to enjoy his drink and dream about the days when life was uncomplicated.  The days long before his wife, a once kind and beautiful woman, had kicked him out because he was “a useless good for nothing piece of shit” that couldn’t even afford to buy her a decent place to live.   Back when he was happy. 

Far from sober, after imbibing the liquid that made his throat feel as though it was being stripped raw, he nearly rolled off the bench when the explosion came; the explosion accompanied by a quake that shook his makeshift bed.  Grabbing for the bench seat to keep from falling onto the cold, hard pavement, he lied there petrified, wondering if the world was coming to end.  He waited, nothing more happening until he heard the sirens in the distance as they came closer, debating whether he should run or stay; he was unsure where the most danger lie. He stumbled to his feet, barely hearing the rustle of startled birds as he weaved away from where he thought the disruption had come. 

Two men, one much taller than the other, hurried past him on the path, moving quickly toward the park exit. 

The taller man ran as though he were in a school race, though even with his blurred vision, the old man thought the runner was too old to be a student. The shorter man ran with a gait the old man had seen many times before, years ago when he had been a young soldier in the army.

* * *

 

Few gentlemen’s clubs were as quintessentially British as the Diogenes Club… and that says quite a bit given the fact that the Brits originated the social clubs.  A bastion of privacy for the upper middle class and the occasional, well-positioned government worker, the Diogenes Club held the reputation for being the most exclusive of the exclusive clubs; new members had to be nominated by at least 5 current members and with a cap on the number of members there could be at any given time, it sometimes took years to gain entrance.  Rumor was, the Prime Minister himself was made to wait 3 years to join, until a prominent banker created an opening after having a heart attack while on a private assignation with his mistress.

No exterior walls were damaged in the blast, but photos leaked to the Daily Mail depicted extensive damage to the interior.  Pictures of massive holes in the walls and debris strewn about, debris that had once been expensive leather-upholstered chairs and antique furnishings.  Special design teams summoned from around the world would be needed to replicate the storied interior.  There were no plans to modernize; the members, many at this point staid old men, wanted their sanctuary back just as it had been.

With no estimate of when the club would once again be available, the discontented men resigned to spending their evenings at home with wives they barely knew anymore.  Wives who felt stifled by their loss of freedom, resenting the presence of the men who had long ago ceased to see them as anything but a caretakers and maids.

* * *

 

In the corner of a small hole-in-the-wall café in west London sat two men at a table behind a column, hidden from view by passersby outside on the sidewalk.  The restaurant was not known for its cuisine, but for the discretion of its staff. The waiters, all recent emigrants unburdened by proper visas, understood the value of privacy.  

The taller man, ginger-haired with a slight speech impediment, dressed in dock worker clothing.  He spoke quietly with the dark-haired smaller man, similarly dressed, with a non-descript cane perched off the side of the table near him, the tremor in his left hand noticeable only if one knew to look for it.  The only words the server could make out were the menu items he had learned to identify through much practice.  Their food barely touched, they sipped from their tea cups, occasionally taking the casual glance around them as if to study the walls in disrepair, wondering if they would hold another day.

Eventually, when a third man entered the cafe and sat down with them, the conversation became even more hushed.  The trio spoke fervently for many minutes while small, white pieces of paper were produced from pockets, examined, and then the man that had joined them left the two, once again, by themselves.  The two men left soon thereafter, leaving a generous tip. Tipping not a customary practice, the waiter knew that the message was “you did not see us here.”  He quickly forgot about the three men that had just been sitting at the table, fastidiously cleaning the table of any signs of recent use.  Had he been asked, he would have convincingly said he had had no customers yet that afternoon. 

________________________

Sherlock removed the mouthpiece, wiping his lips clean of the spittle that had accompanied it on its way out, careful to lay it on a clean towel he had brought with them from Baker St.  By most anyone, the flat they lived in would, generously, be called disheveled, but the hotel room they had rented made 221b look like a hospital-clean mansion in comparison, causing Sherlock to wonder if a broom had been taken to it even once since the building had been erected in the late 1900’s.  Not especially particular, he was still loathe to lie down on the bed without first pulling out his magnifying glass and inspecting it for bed bugs.  John wiped the nearby wooden chair clean before sitting down, thankful that it wasn’t upholstered, allowing it to hide infestations.

“How long do you think we’ll have to wait?  Not that I haven’t holed up in worse conditions than this…” John’s statement trailed as he took a look around the tattered room, unconvinced that despite being able to see it with his own eyes, there were such run down establishments in London.  “Who in their bloody right mind would pay to stay here,” he muttered under his breath.

Barely paying attention to John as he tapped away on his phone, Sherlock finished his message, and bringing his head up, “What?  Oh.  I would say we will have an answer by morning.  The contact we met with earlier will have to go to his commander; we need to be vetted before they’ll let us in.  I have no doubt the bait we set was _very_ attractive, not to mention the information we gave him regarding the newest technology available on the black market; they’ll be eager to get their hands on it to further their campaign.”

“What, John?” Sherlock asked, seeing the uncharacteristic hesitation on John’s face.  He knew full well John was uncomfortable with their activities these past few days, but thought the ex-soldier had reconciled his role in the destruction, was on board with their plans to dismantle a deadly group of men that would stop at little to spread the message of their own particular brand of morality.

John, rarely questioning the methods Sherlock used to solve his cases, found himself in the unusual position of doing so this time.  He understood that sometimes one had to fight fire with fire, after all, he had killed people in defense of innocents, but this was not Afghanistan.  This was not a government-sanctioned war. 

Looking Sherlock square in the eyes without accusation, he asked, “Are you sure we’re going about this the right way?  We haven’t hurt anyone yet, but I don’t think you can guarantee me that we won’t.  To be honest, I’m not sure I could forgive myself if we did.  And…I still don’t know why you’ve made this your fight.  Why have you involved yourself (consciously refraining from adding ‘and me’) in such a dangerous situation when there doesn’t appear to be any payoff for you?  You’re clever Sherlock, the cleverest man I’ve ever known; you don’t need to prove yourself.  If you lose this one,” hastily adding, “not that I think you will, the stakes are too high.  Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

There it was.  He’d put it out there that for once he doubted Sherlock.  Not his brilliance, for that was undeniable, but his motive.  And his methods.   

Had John taken a moment to think beyond what he had asked Sherlock, he would have realized that he hadn’t questioned himself.  Hadn’t asked himself why he was allowing himself to be lead into these deep waters.  And had he thought just a little bit further, he would have known that he hadn’t asked himself because there was never any question about following Sherlock.  Ever.  He would be there with Sherlock every step of the way no matter where their path took them. 

Sherlock cocked his head and studied John, seeing the apprehension, knowing that John wasn’t fearful for his own safety, but concerned about the moral correctness of what they were doing.  Morality, never Sherlock’s strong suit, still was a characteristic he could identify in others, and John’s unerring sense of right and wrong was one reason he loved him.  Over time he had learned to trust John’s guidance in such matters.   But this time, _this_ time there was more than moral correctness at stake; this time Sherlock had a more personal interest in ridding the world of this particular batch of vermin.

“John…”  Still not comfortable with showing even John any sentiment hidden within, except, of course when he touched him, he was significantly less comfortable expressing sentiment about anyone else.

“Yes, love?”  John waited patiently for Sherlock to continue speaking, marveling how, while he looked at the face that warred with itself trying to find words, anyone could think Sherlock was not one of the most human people they knew.  Freaks.

“I know you think I want to do this because it’s a challenge I’ve never had before, that I’m trying to prove how clever I am,” he gave John a pointed look, “I don’t need to prove that.  I know I’m clever.”

Point taken.  Humility lost out once again.

“Mycroft is in danger, John.   And I need to do what I can to make sure nothing happens to him.”  Sherlock paused.  “Mummy would be so displeased.”  The last comment dripped with disdain.

So, thought John, despite the sibling rivalry and barely contained hostility, there _was_ a bond that couldn’t be broken.  As much as he disliked Mycroft, he was pleased that Sherlock recognized it, even in this most rudimentary form.  He didn’t prod Sherlock for details and the detective didn’t offer any.  It was enough to know that this was not a vanity case, that there was a honorable reason for them to be involved.

Nearing midnight, Sherlock reluctantly told John that they’d best get some rest; the next day, if all went well, would prove to be a very busy, dangerous one and they needed to be as alert as possible.

As distasteful as some of what they had done in the past days had been, this was the one thing he liked the least, leaving Sherlock alone.  True, he had gotten used to sleeping with Sherlock every night and now it felt unnatural to sleep alone, but his primary concern was always his lover’s safety.  He took the gun out of its hiding place under the floor board, making Sherlock demonstrate one more time how to disengage the safety, having him recite the steps of pointing and shooting. He mentally kicked himself for not doing what he had long ago wanted and taken him out to target practice, get him used to the feel of shooting gun.  But it was too late now to undo that oversight. 

“When I leave, go over it in your mind at least ten times before you go to sleep, so if someone wakes you up and you need to use it you’ll be more likely to do it automatically instead of hesitating.  If you hesitate…” he didn’t finish the sentence, not wanting to speak the unspeakable. 

“I’ll be just fine, John; we’ve been over this at least a dozen times now.  Don’t aim, just keep firing, and keep my arm down because I tend to lift it too high and all I’ll do is shoot the wall giving them the opportunity to get one in ahead of me.”  He put the safety back on and hid the gun underneath his pillow. 

Taking John’s hand he held it, relishing the soothing touch that had been far too infrequent in past days.  His eyes strayed to the fingernails that had accumulated an unusual amount of grime; there had been no opportunity to properly groom.  Looking back somberly into John’s eyes, “I have no desire to come out of this only to find myself… or you, on a table in Molly’s morgue.” 

Even knowing John had his own gun, both weapons courtesy of Mycroft, and was an expert marksmen, Sherlock still didn’t like that John would be in another room.  But it was prudent for them to stay separate while they slept.  With only one bed in each room, should anyone find out they were sharing, it could be a deadly error. 

John sat down on the bed beside Sherlock where space had been made for him.  He closed his eyes and molded his mouth with the detective’s, memorizing every touch, every scent, every curve of his lips, just in case he had forgotten any of it.  He hadn’t, but some precaution couldn’t hurt.

As he did now every time they parted…just in case, softly, earnestly he murmured “I love you, you know,” adding with a tender smile that contradicted his words, “You stupid git.”

Sherlock’s eyes warmed and he tasted John’s lips one more time for good measure.

“Idiot,” he said, knowing that for not one moment John would not know that what he really meant was “I love you, too.”

* * *

 

He opened his eyes in the darkened room.  The foul smelling hand that covered his mouth was what awakened him.  His first thought was that it was John; he must have come in to the room and wanted to make sure he stayed quiet.  He reached to remove John’s hand, to quietly ask him if something had startled him, but as he did so the hand grasped his mouth more firmly, causing him to breathe hard through his nose. 

So, not John then.

A second dark figure immerged from a few feet away and roughly pushed him to a sitting position, pulling a leather strap from a coat pocket and tying his hands behind Sherlocks back, tight enough to keep Sherlock from using his hands but not so tight as to restrict his blood flow.  Sherlock mentally rolled his eyes as the hand cutting off his air was replaced by a piece of duct tape; really, had kidnappers not evolved beyond their cliché methods? 

Still, he couldn’t help but feel a small panic.  His heart racing, Sherlock’s mind paced - Where’s John?  Had they abducted him, too?  Had they harmed him?  No, no he couldn’t let his thoughts head that direction.  Even if they knew John was in the other room, there was no reason to hurt him. As far as these two knew the doctor had as much credibility to be the bomber as Sherlock did.  For all they knew, _John_ was the mastermind behind the damage they had done, _he_ was the one that had the skills to make the bombs they had been devising and setting off around London; no, they would want to keep John safe to help them.

Sherlock went with them willingly as he was led across the small room, knowing he hadn’t the leverage to escape his captors, not with his hands strapped behind him.  His coat thrown over his shoulders, he was pulled, without any regard for his comfort, out the door past John’s room.  There was no light shining from beneath the generous gap at the bottom of the door, no sound he could hear that indicated there was anyone roused by the commotion in Sherlock’s room… or that anything similar was taking place in there. 

The stairs were difficult for him to navigate in the dark, unbalanced by the inability to move his arms.  Behind him, the second man trained a gun on his back.  He wasn’t surprised to find they didn’t go through the lobby, but even had they, he doubted there would have been anyone there to summon the police.  He heard the clock chime an ironically chipper 3 o’clock.

Walking out what must have been a door leading to the alley, no alarm went off despite the sign warning “EMERGENCY EXIT Only.  Fire alarm will sound”.  The doors on the back of a dark-paneled van opened, and Sherlock, after a quick shove and a gruff “In!”, half climbed, half fell onto the floor. From the the faint glow of lights mounted to the backs of the buildings, he could see it was strewn with bales of wire and unmarked containers (5 plastic chemical canisters, 20 litres a piece, three quarters full), and what looked to be large painter cloths. 

As they covered his head with a hood and the van drove away, Sherlock wasn’t sure whether he was more relieved or more alarmed that John was not in the van with him.

Whichever it was, he knew he wouldn’t be able to bear it if anything happened to John.  Not now.  Not ever.


	11. Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything will be alright. Everything will be alright. EVERYTHING will be alright.

Normally, there was little that Sherlock enjoyed more in life than thinking; after all, it was a defining characteristic of who he was.  But as much as much as he did it, as productive as it generally was, he was not remotely comfortable with it at that moment.  At that moment he had _too_ much time to do it.  Too much time, as he rode in the dark, to wonder why they had taken him.  Too much time to think about where they were taking him and what they would do with him when they got there.

Too much time to think about… _John._

His chest tightened as he thought about the possibilities...  Was John alright?  Where was he?  How long would it be before they saw each other again? 

After they drove off, one of the men had had the decency to lift up the hood to remove the tape off his mouth, causing him to grunt from the sharp pain as the tape pulled at his flesh in an inelegant fashion.  He greedily gulped in air before the hood was lowered once again.  The fabric over his mouth and nose didn’t allow a normal breathing pattern, but it still was better than having the tape over his mouth.

A voice to the right of him told him, “I’ll keep the tape off as long as you stay quiet, if not, I’ll have to put more back on. Understand?”  Despite the situation, the voice didn’t sound unkindly, but there was a firmness to the tone that helped Sherlock understand that perhaps he should follow the directions or there could be unpleasant consequences.  Perhaps more unpleasant than just another piece of tape. 

With his face behind the hood, the kidnappers couldn’t see Sherlock’s mouth open as he started to say something, but before a sound could escape he hastily changed his mind.  It was not unusual for him to ignore what to others might be sound advice.  But not this time.  He nodded his head in acquiescence; this time he knew what he did was about far more than himself. 

And, oddly enough, he _did_ care whether or not he himself was hurt.  Of the many times his life had been in danger, there had only been one time,  one time that he had regretted he might not live to see another day and that had been the time he had been shot and nearly died.  He hadn’t been afraid to die, he had just known he didn’t want to stop living.  Otherwise how could he have continued to experience the miracle that was John Watson?  How could he have been able to wake up to the one person that could surprise and delight him? 

No, no he had to keep silent. He had to live and he had to see John.  He kept his mouth shut and waited. 

What he waited for, he didn’t know. 

* * *

 

Mycroft sat several feet from the fireplace, looking at, but not seeing the flames flickering there.  His elbows resting on the chair arms, propping up his hands so he could steeple his fingers at his chin, he contemplated the situation.   It was a grave one indeed.   

Not one to wear his heart on his sleeve, Mycroft nonetheless had been quite serious when he had told John he worried about his brother.  Constantly.  To be sure, when he had said that, what he had meant was that he was constantly concerned about the absurd things Sherlock did that got him into trouble, things that could possibly cause him an early demise.  But it would also be true that he felt a protectiveness that no doubt had something to do with being the elder brother. 

Being a number of years older than his brother he had often been tasked with watching after him when the household help was otherwise occupied.  And no matter how much it had irritated him to be burdened with keeping such a reckless child out of trouble, it had become second nature to do so and was something he had never been able to shake himself of, even as Sherlock ventured well into adulthood. 

And now, here he was, worrying about Sherlock once again, but not due to Sherlock’s miscalculations.  Regrettably, very regrettably, due to his own.  Precision was his lifeblood and there was no excuse that due to his, well, error, he had put Sherlock in more danger than he had anticipated.

He was the one that had involved Sherlock in the matter.  He had, begrudgingly, come to the conclusion that Sherlock was the right man for this particular job; that had not been the thing he had miscalculated.  No, what he had underestimated was the intelligence of the men he was seeking.  He had thought they were pedestrian~ simple-minded criminals with simple-minded methods. 

Mycroft’s mind was changed when the news came to him, moments ago, that Sherlock and John had been kidnapped.

Though they didn’t measure up to his own, Mycroft knew well that Sherlock’s mental acuities were not ordinary; he possessed observational skills and a quickness of mind that put the common person’s to shame.  If these men had outwitted Sherlock, they could not, would not, be underestimated any longer.

Mycroft sighed.  And why had Sherlock had to involve Dr. Watson?  He had expressly advised against it, but once again, he should have known better.  He should have known better than to think his brother would heed his warning; common sense was by no means Sherlock’s strong suit and his brother did have a strong tendency to do exactly what he was told not to do.

Now, Sherlock and John were missing and he had to find them before anything untoward happened to them.  His reputation on the line, Mycroft grimly acknowledged that so was his brother’s life. 

Still staring at the fire, he picked up the tumbler from the table and took a small swig of the amber fluid it held; he wouldn’t want to admit it was to bolster his courage for what he was about to do.

Taking his mobile out of his pocket, he tapped the glowing device twice to reach the screen he wanted, and pausing a fraction of second, tapped at the initials PM. 

With an air of authority that for once was a facade, he spoke into the mobile.  “Mycroft for the Prime Minister.  Yes, I’ll wait.”

* * *

 

Still in total darkness, Sherlock endured the ride in the back of the van, unsure now how long their journey was.  He had broken his vow to himself to not think about John, resorting to the comforting image of his head lying in John’s lap as they watched a black and white rerun of The Twilight Zone.  Well, he said _they…_   Silly show really, the science of it highly improbable and the acting melodramatic.  But it pleased John and Sherlock had often been content to lay there for the occasional double or triple feature as John ran his hand through his hair as though he were an over-sized angora cat. 

He fell asleep as he imagined John’s fingers winding through his curls, stroking him, stroking him, stroking him…waking with a start as he realized the van had stopped moving.  They must have reached their destination.  Maybe now he would find out what they had in store for him. 

* * *

 

Prime Minister Cameron picked up the receiver when his night secretary informed him Mycroft Holmes was on the line.  He had personally handpicked Mycroft for the JIC post, but he always felt unsettled whenever he had to deal with the man.  There was a cold, reptilian quality to him that was tolerated only because Holmes was a brilliant man who got results.  Cameron often felt fortunate that he was on the same side of the law, he knew he otherwise would have had much to fear.  

“Yes, Mycroft,” he said into the phone. It must be quite the urgent matter for him to have called at such an unusual hour.  To rouse the Prime Minister from sleep.

“Your what?  Your brother?  How did he get involved in this matter?  You do realize that this is highly irregular.”

He listened to the voice on the other end of the line, mouthing to his wife, who was also now awake, that it was nothing she need be alarmed about.

“Yes, yes, I agree.  I will approve your plan, but Mycroft, when you get this resolved you are to report immediately to my office.  Immediately.  Do you understand?”

Even though they couldn’t be seen through the phone line, stern lines across the bridge of his nose accompanied his order. 

“Alright then.  Good night,” he said, as he hung up the phone and settled back down into the goose feather bed coverings, noting his wife had already fallen back asleep.

The Prime Minister, inured to a daily diet of problems that tested his mettle as a global leader, mentally shook his head.  Mycroft would just have to get himself, and his brother, out of this one. 

* * *

 

When the van stopped, Sherlock heard the back doors open.  As the hood was pulled from his head, air cooled the sweat that had formed on his scalp under the confinement of the fabric.  It felt impossibly good to be able to breathe freely; he sucked in the air that he had been deprived of for far too long.  He coughed, his throat dry from the dirty, dusty air in the vehicle. 

One of kidnappers guided him out of the van, assisting him in the awkwardness of doing so since his hands were still tied behind his back.

A thousand questions ran through his mind as he looked around at the empty, underground car park.  Where were they?  Why were they there?  If he was to work for them, why did they feel the need to kidnap him and not just meet him at the arranged location?  And the most important question of all, by far…

“Where is my colleague?  Have you brought him here as well?” 

“Did you mean to say your lover, Mr. Holmes?  Where is your _lover_?  Or should I say your ‘fiance’?”  The man Sherlock identified as Right Voice was of medium height and build, and had a slight lisp; his average appearance would have made him easy to overlook even in a small crowd.

Sherlock’s body went cold, but he adopted an exaggerated air of boredom, hoping that they only thought they knew something, something that could only be confirmed by the wrong reaction. 

“Mr. Holmes?” he scoffed.  “Either you haven’t paid enough money to get good information or you have overactive imaginations.  My name is Lars Knudson,” he said with a flawless Swedish accent, “and my colleague is hired help, nothing more, nothing less. I normally work alone, but as this project was larger than I usually take on, I took him on to assist me. I assure, you, he comes with excellent credentials and will keep anything you say or do to himself.  So if you’ve kidnapped him as well in an attempt to try to sabotage our collaboration, you’ve wasted an enormous amount of energy that could be put to better use.”  His eyebrow raised derisively in judgment of their amateurish mistake.

“I would be disappointed by the lack of thoroughness of our scouts if they hadn’t determined just who it is that we are to be working with, Mr. Holmes.”  He took in Sherlock’s strawberry-blonde hair, the common clothing, the exaggerated slouch that was a far cry from Sherlock’s usual regality, and commented, “A fairly clever disguise, but you would be foolish to think that we don’t know who you are and that you aren’t exactly who we intend to involve in our grand finale.” 

As Sherlock’s eyes involuntarily flickered, giving him away, Right Voice continued.  “We counted on your arrogance, and that of your brother’s, to convince you to think you could get away with your plan.  And I see from your handiwork the last few days you have what we needed to get from you, the blueprint, if you will, of the bomb you have been using. 

“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” he confirmed, “we know exactly who you are and what you are capable of.”

Sherlock appraised the two men, Right Voice and his compatriot, bringing himself to his full height since there was no need to pretend anymore.  His haughtiness unleashed, “Since you know who I am, why do you think I would help you?  I make it a practice of _tracking down_ criminals, not joining you in your petty little games.  I wouldn’t stoop to help the likes of you.  Boring.” 

“Petty little games?  You may think it’s a _game_ Mr. Holmes, but it’s about FREEDOM,” his anger barely contained, as the man in front of him  had the audacity to look as though he were in command of the situation.  “About the freedom of all people to live a, if not prosperous life, then one where they don’t need to struggle day in and day out to just to make a meager living while the wealthiest of the wealthy hoard what by rights should be shared by all.”

Sherlock licked his lips and responded coolly, “And your means to the end is to destroy?  To put these people you _care_ so much about in harm’s way?  That doesn’t seem very civil of you, Mr…”

“Magnusson, you may call me Magnusson.  You asked why we think you will help us.  Because, Mr. Holmes, I’ve no doubt that you would like to see your fiancé again.  But you may be surprised to know that Dr. Watson…is with us.”

“With ‘us’?  What do you mean ‘with us’? He’s here?”  Sherlock looked around, seeing nothing but a few, apparently empty, vehicles in the expanse of the car park. 

“I don’t see him.  Show him to me,” Sherlock demanded, as though he had some type of leverage to make them do what he wanted.

“No, Mr. Holmes, I don’t mean he’s _here_ with us, I mean he is _one_ of us.” 

Sherlock took a moment to absorb this, uneasy with the clear implication.  Certainly he was mistaken in Magnusson’s meaning.  He shifted his weight as he waited, having no doubt that Magnusson would explain.

“He’s a plant.  He’s been with us since the beginning.  Remember Kyle McCann?  Who disappeared two years ago?  _He_ is your “dear John”.  What do you think his expertise was in Afganistan?  After he left the Army, as so many of our noble soldiers were he was adrift and we recruited him.  Recruited him to take down smug government bastards like your brother.  He was only too happy to help, after all, he felt dirty after being used by our government to do some of the, shall I say _uncharitable_ , acts he had to commit against innocent people, people that had done no wrong other than to be born in a barbaric country.”

The confidence on Sherlock’s face was slowly replaced with confusion; how could that be?  “You’re lying.  I’ve lived, and worked, with him closely for the last 6 months and he has never shown any hint at being anything other than an ex-army doctor whose mission in life is to heal people.” And nothing other than a man in love. In love with me, he added silently to himself.  “You’re lying to get me to tell you what I know, to use it against my brother.”

“We knew you would doubt what we’re saying about McCann, so I brought along a little proof.”

Magnusson unclipped his phone from his belt and held it up for Sherlock to hear.

Sherlock heard the voice rise from the speaker; there was no way he would not know John’s voice anywhere. 

“Yeh, he’s bought it,” John said.  “He thinks I’m in love with him, the stupid git.  It really wasn’t very hard to get him to fall in love with me, he’s been starved for affection for so long he probably would fall in love with a three-toed sloth if it gave him the time of day.  His brother is planning a big wedding for us.  I know it won’t be legal, but for Christ’s sake, you have to get me out of it; I don’t want it to even _look_  like I’m getting married to a freak like him.”

Magnusson turned the voice recording off.  “Believe me now?”  he asked Sherlock.  There was almost compassion in his eyes, compassion for the man he knew had just been given evidence of the ultimate betrayal.

Sherlock couldn’t process what he had heard.  He knew without a doubt it was John’s voice, but it wasn’t…it wasn’t _John._ He had never heard John’s voice so hard, so full of venom.  Not toward anyone else and certainly not toward him.   He couldn’t reconcile the words he had heard on the recording with the man he was in love with, the man he fully intended to marry. 

Before he could begin to make sense of what was going on, he heard a vehicle approach. 

“Here they come now,” Front Voice said, speaking for the first time since they’d parked.

The trio of men watched as a van matching the first pulled alongside it.

Two people got out of the van.  The first, the passenger, was a woman about 40 years old, smartly, but impractically dressed, her boot heels too high to be useful for anything but walking.  She strode towards them with a confidence that told Sherlock she was in charge.

Next came the driver.  Appearing from around the other side of the van, he wore a dark green t-shirt that clung to his well-formed muscles, camo pants, and a Browning L9A1 holstered on his hip.  As the small man greeted the two kidnappers, Sherlock feared his knees would buckle as he saw the cold eyes sweep past him without a glimmer of acknowledgement.

John.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING will be alright in the next chapter.


	12. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is our reward for the hardships of the last chapter

Fuckity Fuck Fuck…FUCK!

The needle they jabbed into his arm dispersed a fiery substance that hurt like HELL.  He barely had time to struggle, barely had time to weakly call out Sherlock’s name before his world went hazy.  The face above him blurred as he lost connection with the room around him, lost the ability to even think about getting to Sherlock…to make sure… he was safe… 

Sherlock…

Fuck

no

* * *

 

Just for a moment, just for one split second, Sherlock’s knees threatened to go weak as he saw the hatred in John’s eyes.  For his lover, his _husband-to-be,_ to not acknowledge him, to not give one small hint of their extraordinary bond, threw him.  Shook him like nothing ever had.

But just for a moment.

He was hit by the memory of when he had doubted John’s intentions, after he had read the enigmatic wording in his wedding band, ‘I Owe You So Much’.  Wording that turned out to be a testament of John’s deep love for him, rather than a hint that his love wasn’t what it should be. 

He remembered well how he had ultimately come to the conclusion that he should never, _never_ doubt John’s love again. 

He remembered how he told John he would never make that mistake again. 

He didn’t make that mistake now. 

He didn’t know what was going on, why John was not _himself_.  But Sherlock knew that no matter what the situation looked like, John loved him.  Of that there was no question.

He stood a little straighter.

* * *

 

As Magnusson stood in back of him, Sherlock could feel his hands freed from the leather strap.  Sherlock stretched the arm muscles that were sore from being in such an unnatural position for so long, stretched life back into his hands and fingers, rubbing them to get the blood flowing again. 

Magnusson could feel Sherlock’s surprise that his hands were being let loose.  While the captor had felt the need to initially restrain Sherlock, he did not consider himself to be an unreasonable man.

There were many that would not agree with Magnusson on how he and his team members went about getting attention for their cause; bombing was seen as a terrorist act.  But they were no terrorists; they were merely using a very effective method to get the attention of a few, on behalf of the hundreds of thousands of people who agreed that the government had too much control over the monies and lives of ordinary citizens.

Not once had anyone been killed directly as a result of their actions; they were always careful to make sure any buildings they bombed were empty, that any explosions near people were strategically located so as not to cause injury.  But…there had been times when, in the excited aftermath of one of their staged events, others had taken advantage of the chaos; riots had been incited and innocent bystanders injured, such as in the Blackberry Riots. They could not be held responsible for the stupidity and irresponsibility of others. 

He stood well away from Sherlock; he might be reasonable, but he wasn’t foolish. “So Mr. Holmes, it’s now time to get down to business; it’s time for you to give me the plans for the bombs you’ve been detonating all around London.  Quite impressive, I must say.  I see what they can do on a small scale and I can only imagine what they would do to a building such as this.”  He swept his hand out to emphasize the size of the structure. 

Sherlock’s eyes gauged the size and scope of the garage.  If it had the capacity to park this many cars, it obviously had to be a many-storied building.  “Where are we?”

“We’re underneath the Liverpool Echo offices.”

The Liverpool Echo, Liverpool’s six-day-a-week newspaper, was under threat of being returned to state-owned status.  If the government printed the paper, it would have one more way to influence the economy, the politics.  To influence the public in what should be a democracy free of government propaganda.

While Sherlock was vaguely aware of what was going with the Echo, courtesy of John, politics was just one more area that held no appeal for him. 

“As I asked before, why do you think I would help you?” Sherlock turned fully toward him and glared imperiously at him in a way only a Holmes could. 

“Because if you don’t, I have no reason to keep you alive,” Magnusson said matter-of-factly, not seeming to give a damn one way or the other.  “Kyle,” he said, nodding at John.  John removed the gun from his holster and held it beside his leg, ready to take action.  His eyes on Magnusson, he awaited further instruction.

“Mr. Holmes?  Would you like to rethink this?”  Magnusson cocked his head at Sherlock and waited patiently.  There really was no reason to rush things, especially if patience would produce the results he wanted.  He would carry out their plans to bomb the building they stood under, one way or another, but he _did_ have his preferences.

Sherlock looked at John, the soldier’s relaxed stance giving no indication that he was bothered with the prospect of shooting anyone, not even Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged, feigning disinterest. “Go ahead then.  You seem to know so much about me.  If you do, then you know if John isn’t who I think he is, it doesn’t matter to me whether I live or die.  Alive I won’t help you, dead, I can’t.  So it won’t make any difference to you either.”

Magnusson studied Sherlock.  He and the team had done enough research on the Holmes brothers to know the resolution he saw on Sherlock’s face would not be overturned.  From what he understood, the younger Holmes brother was as stubborn as they come.  He had truly thought their plan to turn John against him would be the tipping point to get Sherlock to give up the information.  He had thought that the indifference towards the older brother would make Sherlock turn against _him_. 

Fuck, all that time wasted, wasted on some stupid “consulting detective”.

“Alright then, have it your way,” he said to Sherlock.  Giving a sharp nod to John, he told him to “Shoot him.”

Standing only about 15 feet away, John released the safety on the gun and raised his arm to aim the deadly weapon at Sherlock’s head. 

Sherlock didn’t flinch.  He knew that no matter how bad things looked, that the John he knew was not capable of murder.  Not capable of cold-blooded murder and not capable of murdering Sherlock.  But still, he couldn’t take the chance.  Couldn’t take the chance that if John had been brain-washed, or some other preposterous thing, that if he did somehow kill him, he didn’t want John to have to live with that.  He knew John _couldn’t_   live with it.  He had to stop this.  Now.

He stepped toward John, closer to the barrel of the gun that could at any second end all of it.  End Sherlock.  End John.

John slowly blinked.  The hardness in his eyes was still there, but that pause told Sherlock everything he needed to know.  Everything he _already_ knew. 

He moved another step closer, and still, John didn’t fire.  He didn’t understand why the others didn’t intervene.  Perhaps because they didn’t know John like he did and thought there wasn’t any need to believe that they had somehow underestimated their ability to create a killer. 

John glanced over at Magnusson, as though questioning what he ought to do.

“Shoot him.”  Magnusson ordered again. 

John brought his other hand up to the gun and bent his elbows, preparing himself for the recoil.

The John Sherlock knew didn’t need two hands to shoot, two arms to steady himself for the perfect shot.  He moved one step closer, not allowing his eyes to leave John’s face.  Even with the scowl, it was the most beautiful face Sherlock had ever seen. 

Sherlock reached out his hand, his long, graceful fingers extending his reach, stopping just short of being able to touch the Browning.  The barrel was aimed at his chest now, close enough to cause a gaping wound, close enough to cause a wound there would be no coming back from.

He fluttered his fingers, softly beaconing, silently pleading.  “No, John, this isn’t you, give me the gun,” he spoke gently, his voice low enough that he was certain the others couldn’t hear.

For the first time, John looked conflicted.  He remained silent, his eyes locked on Sherlock, yet his stance remained unwavering.

“SHOOT him.” Magnusson barked at John, adding with impatience, “or I will shoot _you_.”

As if he hadn’t heard Magnusson, John didn’t move as Sherlock took the last small step toward him and removed the gun from his hand; he looked at Sherlock with genuine confusion, the hatred all but gone.  Why had he had let this happen?  He looked at his empty hand and then over at Magnusson, before his eyes shifted back to the tall bleached-blonde man, wondering what it was about him that caused him to feel so disoriented. Caused him to fail to do the one thing he was supposed to do.

Sherlock carefully set the safety and let the gun fall to his side, his eyes not leaving John for a moment.  He had felt no fear as he had approached John.  Not because he didn’t care whether or not he got hurt, but because he knew with every cell of his being he had nothing to fear from John.  Appearances at the moment were deceiving, but he knew John Watson loved him and would never, never, harm him, no matter the circumstances.  Not if he was angry, not if Sherlock hurt him. 

Not if his life depended on it.

* * *

 

As Magnusson watched the little drama, he had been certain John would follow through; they had very carefully prepared him.  He was wrong.  As soon as he saw Sherlock reach for the gun, he rushed over and took it from him; he would take care of the problem himself.

Still watching John, in the instant Magnusson retrieved the gun Sherlock saw…John.  The John that he knew and loved beyond anything, anyone, he had ever known was resurfacing in the blue eyes, unwavering in their hold on Sherlock.  The blue eyes that Sherlock couldn’t tear himself away from.

Sherlock breathed deeply, a profound relief flooding through his body.  For once unaware of what was going on around him, unaware of anything but the marvel of having John back with him, he didn’t notice as Magnusson slipped the gun from his hand and pointed it at him.

But the bomber didn’t have the opportunity to shoot Sherlock.

The detective and the doctor had devised too many signals to let each other know what needed to be done next, and there was only one that could possibly work for them in this situation, one that had worked for them several times before.  Tried and true, it worked more time…

“Vatican Cameos!” John shouted, snapping Sherlock out of his reverie and compelling him to drop instantly to his knees, the shot that exploded hurting their ears as the deafening sound reverberated off the concrete walls.

John sprang toward Magnusson, rounding a hard kick to his left knee, grabbed the gun and trained it on the prone man who was now looking up at him with pain contorting his face.

Sherlock stood back up and after exchanging a brief glance with John, looked over at the other two in time to see the woman pull a small pistol from her boot. Before she had time to lift it all the way, they heard someone call out from the far end of the car park.

“I wouldn’t advise you do that, it could be hazardous to your health,” the voice said drily.

Sherlock almost rolled his eyes; couldn’t Mycroft stay out of _anything_ ?  Couldn’t he have stuck to their plan?  Though, to be fair, the plan _had_ gone awry…stupid!

He saw the laser sights find their targets on Miranda’s chest and temple.  Well aware of the threat, Miranda eased the gun the rest of the way out of her boot and laid it on the ground, raising her hands high to show that she was complying without argument; Front Voice threw his hands up in the air, not needing to be told.

Turning toward where he had heard Mycroft, Sherlock looked over at his brother and with an inscrutable look on his face, nodded to him.  Mycroft nodded back before turning around and walking away.  There was nothing that needed to be said.

Minor threat that Magnusson was with a broken kneecap, John still continued to hold the gun on him.  Several agents, dressed head-to-toe in black, loped over and took the gun from him, pulling Magnusson, clearly in agony, from the ground and handcuffing him.  Miranda and Front Voice stood where they were, knowing there was no escape.  Cuffed, too, by the snipers, they were led through the garage, up the ramp, to an awaiting vehicle to be returned to London.

* * *

 

It felt like it had been years since they had been together.  It felt like it had been an eternity since they had been able to touch one another, had been able to hold the one person who meant everything to them.  Finally free of danger, John and Sherlock couldn’t get into each other’s arms fast enough, couldn’t get close enough.

“John, John,” Sherlock breathed into John’s neck, his face buried in the warmth that only this man could provide him.  His arms held the smaller man tightly to him.

“Christ Sherlock, I can’t believe what I almost did, what they made me do.  The recording, I…” John let the words hang, his voice hoarse from imagining the horror that could have happened. He pressed his face into Sherlock’s collar, his hand hanging onto the nape of Sherlock’s neck as though for dear life, his other hand burrowed deep into Sherlock’s jacket.

“It’s alright John, I know, I know,” Sherlock’s voice softly soothed.  “I know it wasn’t what you wanted to do.  I told you, I would never doubt you again.  No matter what.  I know you could never hurt me.”

They stood there for several minutes, molded to each other in body and heart, not caring if there was anyone around, not caring if anyone was waiting.  This moment was about them, and them alone.

The agent standing nearby finally cleared his throat.  It was time to go.

“Sirs, we have a helicopter waiting to take you home.”

Sherlock and John pulled away from each other, taking a moment to look at each other, really _look_  at each other, absorbing that each of them was here. Alive.  Safe.  Entwining their fingers, they walked hand-in-hand as they followed the agent to the helipad.

As they walked, John let out a chuckle.  Looking up at Sherlock’s head, he said “I didn’t tell you this, but your hair is crap.  Hate it.”

Sherlock just raised eyebrow and smiled at him.  There were worse things in life.

 

The flight took just short of 2 hours.  They wore headphones with microphones, but they didn’t talk the entire way home; their hands, each one clutching the other, said everything they needed to say.

* * *

 

John woke up.  The light was on, so it must be nighttime.

Sherlock leaned over him, propped on his elbow.  Watching him.  John smiled a sleepy smile and reached up to bring Sherlock’s head down to his, morning breath (or whatever it was) be damned.  His fingers played with the soft curls as his mouth sought out the rich abundance that was Sherlock’s lips; his tongue, with a mixture of reluctance and anticipation moved inside the silken cavern that was Sherlock’s mouth.  Met by Sherlock’s, their tongues danced and sparred, reaffirming their need for each other. 

As if there was any doubt. 

All too soon, Sherlock wiped his mouth and propped himself back up, once again looking at John intently. 

The seriousness on his face prompted John to ask, “What’re you thinking about, love?”  He wasn’t concerned about _them_ , but whatever it was, he didn’t want Sherlock to fret about anything any longer than he had to.

Sherlock stared at him a moment longer, then in a voice deep and low said, “Marry me, John…marry me.”  It wasn’t a question, it wasn’t a command, just one man telling another what needed to be done.

Aaahhh, there it was. Finally.

“Not because it will protect us legally, which, of course, it will, but because I love you.  Because I want, when people see me, see my ring, that I have given myself to you.  That you have given yourself to _me._   I want visible evidence of what we already know.”

John looked into Sherlock’s face, the eyes that he wasn’t sure he couldn’t drown in, and saw a man that knew exactly what he wanted.  And why.  He drew in a deep breath, overcome by the awareness of how far Sherlock had come since they first met.  

John had been terribly hurt by Sherlock’s reaction to the ring’s engraving, fearing that it might irreparably damage their future.  But with a little distance, he had realized he hadn’t truly doubted Sherlock, but that Sherlock doubted himself.  He had held off approaching the subject of marriage until Sherlock knew without a doubt he could trust John.  And himself. 

“Oh god, _god_  how I love you.”  John could barely say the words, so strong was the emotion he felt.

Sherlock dipped his head and peered more closely at him, “Is that a ‘yes’ then?”  He wanted to make sure he clearly understood what the answer was.

“We don’t have to get married to wear rings, you know.  We can just put them on, no one else will know the difference.   I’m sure you’re aware of this, but beyond the legal aspects, marriage isn’t exactly…logical.”  John wasn’t sure why he was playing devil’s advocate, because there was no bone in his body that did not want to marry Sherlock Holmes. 

The gleam in Sherlock’s eye told John he wasn’t going to get away with it.  Sherlock had made up his mind and what Sherlock wanted, Sherlock got.

“I can be illogical.”  Sherlock kissed John on the lips.

“Twat.”

“I can be conventional.”  Sherlock kissed John on his neck, feeling the pulse beneath his lips quicken.

 John sucked in a breath, “Prat.”

“So, is that a ‘yes’, then?”  Sherlock asked one more time as he picked up John’s hand and pressed his lips against the palm, his eyes locking with John’s as his tongue swirled tiny circles in the heart of it.

“Yes, you stupid git!  Yes.  Jesus.”  John shook his head, always amazed at Sherlock’s inability to understand something that wasn’t written in bold, black letters.  He sighed.  He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Sherlock drew his mouth away from John’s hand and as a smug smile settled on his face, said, “Right then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Burning_Up_A_Sun, you are truly luminous!
> 
> Now I have a wedding to plan, yea!


	13. Profound

“So, why are you looking so smug, then?  It’s not like you wooed me for years to get me to marry you.” John said, slightly miffed that Sherlock looked like he’d beat him at some great game. But he couldn’t stay annoyed, the image of Sherlock wooing _anyone_ was quite rather amusing.

“Look at it this way, John.  Unsentimental, logical me, and I’ve managed twice to ask you to marry me and both times you’ve said ‘yes’, whereas, _you_ haven’t even asked me once.  So who’s the romantic one?  You, or me?  Someday you’re just going to have to admit it, I’m more romantic than you are.” 

John thought if Sherlock managed to look any more smug, his face might just break.  Never one to back down from a challenge, John quickly came up with a plan.

“I’ll show _you_ who’s romantic.”  John jumped out of bed and, re-thinking his rapid departure, turned back and gave Sherlock a quick kiss, demanding with mock sternness, “Close your eyes and stay put.” 

John stood there, looking at Sherlock, looking at the face he loved so well.  As joyful as he was, as frigging _happy_  he was that things were finally settled between them, John could still feel it gnawing at the pit of stomach.  Could still feel the ache of something left unexplained. Something he needed to tell his love before they could fully move forward.

 “Uh, Sherlock?”

“Yes?”  Hearing the hesitancy in John’s voice, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him. “What, John?”

“I just…you _do_ know that what I, what I said about you in that recording, those weren’t my words?  Right? I’ve never thought you are a freak; I was never embarrassed to marry you.  They drugged me with some kind of chemical, they made me…” His words cut off as he felt the weight of the memory.

Suddenly Sherlock’s playfulness was gone; he could see the distress on John’s face that clearly said he feared Sherlock would think there was even the smallest hint of truth to what had been said. 

“John,” he said, looking straight into the soldier’s eyes, willing him to see the faith he had, the trust he had in John’s heart.  “There is not one bit of me that thinks you are capable of thinking or feeling those things.  You didn’t deserve to go through that and you mustn’t feel guilty about it.  To tell you the truth, I almost forgot about that, it was inconsequential,” he said, the last words a lie.  He hadn’t forgotten about it.  Not because he had believed any of it, but because he knew how much it would bother John to have said those words, coerced or not.

“Now, I’m going to close my eyes like you told me to and you go do whatever it is you have in that head of yours to do.”  Sherlock closed his eyes and waived his hand toward the door in dismissal, but not before he saw John’s relief that Sherlock wasn’t worried about what had been said.

 “Haven’t you left, yet?” He grumbled, “I’m going to fall asleep if I have to stay like this all night.”

“Be patient, I’ll be right back.”  John chuckled, grateful that Sherlock had seemed to understand.  Grateful that he could now look forward to what should be one of the happiest days of their lives. 

Sherlock snorted.  “Patient.  I can be patient.”

The truth was, Sherlock didn’t like to play games, especially not hide and seek.  As a child when he had played the silly game with his cousins, they always got mad at him because he would deduce where they were within minutes and when it was his turn to hide he would have to stay cramped in whatever small space he’d tucked himself into, for hours, because they couldn’t find him.  Years later he discovered they didn’t even try; they hadn’t liked to play with him so they pretended they couldn’t find him.  

He heard John’s bare feet pounding the steps on his way up to his old bedroom.  Since the first night they had slept together, the room had been John-less, it’s previous occupant now permanently sharing the room downstairs.  Even the few times they’d had disagreements they weren’t able to resolve before they fell asleep, they slept in the same bed, unwilling to spend even an angry night apart.  Item by item, the contents of the room had come downstairs.  Eventually it would be empty.

Drawers were opened and slammed shut.  Then Sherlock heard him come back downstairs more carefully than was normal… he must be carrying something heavy, or perhaps an awkward load.  Soon, Sherlock heard him rummaging around the flat.  What in the world was he up to? 

As John finally approached the door of their bedroom, he called out, “Are your eyes still closed?”

“Yes, my eyes are still closed.  Get on with it.” 

“Keep your pants on!  It’s going to take me a minute.”

“Well _that_ doesn’t sound like very much fun,” Sherlock sniffed, “I was hoping for something a little more…adventurous.”

John grunted; Sherlock would just have to suffer the wait. 

Sherlock’s curiosity was peaked to the point of torment.  What in the world was John _doing?_  He heard a few clinks here and there, something getting set on the table, hmmm.  Several things were put on the floor.  Click.  Click.  Click.  Then came an interesting aroma.  Lavender and vanilla, perhaps?  Every sense was on alert trying to figure out what John was up to.  Then finally, minutes later, after he heard something a little heavier hit the floor beside the bed, John told him to open his eyes.

When he did, the room was aglow from the flames of what must have been about 30 candles set around the room.  Kneeling on one knee by his side of the bed, was John, still gloriously naked, holding the small box with the rings opened toward Sherlock.

“Will you marry me, love, and make me the happiest man on Earth?  Will you make my life complete?”

Looking at John’s happy face, Sherlock couldn’t completely tell whether or not he was being mocked, but as it was John asking these things, he decided to go with ‘not’.

“But I already asked _you_ and you said ‘yes’, which by default means _I_  have already said ‘yes’,” Sherlock pointed out, making sure that proper credit was given where it was due.

“Aahh, which makes _me_ the more romantic one because I can overlook that little detail.  Besides, you got to ask twice and I haven’t asked even once.  If I don’t take the opportunity now, I never will get to ask anyone to marry me.  I will never get to ask _you_  to marry me, and that would be a big regret for me.” 

Sherlock could see a certain logic to that argument, and… he could see it was important to John.

Taking the covers off, he got out of bed and knelt beside John. 

“Ask me again.”

“Sherlock, will you do me the honor of being my husband?”  This time when John asked, his face softened with the solemnity of his words, never had he said any more important.

“There is nothing I would rather do.” 

Sherlock took the box from John’s hand and laid it on the table.  Using both hands to cup the face of the man that had given him his heart back, he smiled into his eyes and covered his lips with soft pecks, hearing little bubble pops each time his lips broke contact so he could kiss him again. And again. 

And again.

John’s eyes fluttered closed as he relaxed into Sherlock’s touch.  His lips parted as Sherlock delicately nudged at them, dipping in to taste him, to suck John’s tongue until he heard the low moan that said he was eager for more.  Teasing John’s lips a little more with the tip of his tongue, he was a breath away from John’s mouth as he told John, “Up.”

John opened his eyes to see the desire on Sherlock’s face, and without needing to be told again, got up from his knees and sat on the side of the bed, while Sherlock stood up over him. 

No words were necessary as Sherlock guided him to scoot back onto the bed, and giving John’s flank a small slap to get him to lift his hips, placed a pillow underneath him.  The entire time their eyes remained locked together, moving in tandem as though they were of one mind, one body.

John held his arms out, he needed to hold Sherlock.  It had only been minutes since he had done so, but it was too long ago.  And Sherlock was too far away even though his thighs were gripping him where he knelt on the side of the bed.  He didn’t know if it was possible that he could ever get enough of this extraordinary man, this man who _he_ was allowed to love, the man who loved _him._  It was all so…so…

He took a deep breath as Sherlock leaned over him, not sure which was causing the more excruciating anticipation, Sherlock’s beautiful, beautiful face coming closer to his, or the surge of lust he felt as Sherlock’s erection nudged up against his length as he bent over him. 

Christ.

Sherlock was well aware that John’s arousal was reaching a point of no return.  Every symptom of sexual desire and love he’d ever rattled off was apparent on John~ the pupils blown wide open, the shallow breathing, the pulse at his neck visible for anyone to see.  The cock at full mast, proclaiming it readiness.

He knew if he looked in a mirror he would see the same thing.  He knew that if he felt John’s pulse it would be racing, racing just as was his own. 

He felt as though he could hardly breathe as he leaned in.  As he took his lover’s fingers and knitted the two pairs together, holding their hands to the bed on each side of the silver-blonde head, he leaned in to kiss him with a slow, hypnotic rhythm that despite its chasteness, was exquisitely erotic. 

John arched to meet Sherlock, his body agonizingly distant even though it was mere inches away. 

“Sherlock, Sherlock” he sighed reverently as he pressed against the body above him. “Sherlock…”

As Sherlock’s lips concentrated on John’s, he extended the focus of his rhythm down to his hips, smoothing his cock along John’s, matching the movements as though his entire body was stroking John all at once.

“Fuck, Sherlock.  Just…fuck.”

Despite how affected he was, wondering how long he would be able to keep himself from coming, Sherlock asked, in a tone all innocence and sweetness, “Yes, John?  Fuck what?

“Fuck _me_ , you daft prick!” 

“Say please.”

“What?!”

“Say, please.”

John knew if he were a violent man, he probably would have smacked Sherlock right then.  What was all this “please” shite?!  And Sherlock actually… he actually looked like his was enjoying his sadistic little game.  The git!  Okay, they’d do it his way, then.

“Please, love, will you fuck me.  Please,” John said in the most reasonable tone he could muster, hoping that would get him what he wanted.  What he needed.

“Well, since you put it that way…” Sherlock replied, just as reasonably.  He did feel a bit guilty for putting John through this, but he’d read an article in a respectable…gentlemen’s magazine that John had left out and wanted to put it to the test.  So far, so good. 

Taking his hands from John’s, Sherlock lifted himself off John and reached for the lube inside the bedside table drawer.  John watched the tube come out, watched as the lid was uncapped and Sherlock squirted a dab on his fingers, then mercifully, (or was it devilishly?) swirled his finger around John’s rim, then carefully thrust it in…in…and a little further in.  John kept his eyes on Sherlock’s as long as he could until he closed them and gave himself completely to the sensation that was quickly taking over his existence.

John opened his eyes back up to see Sherlock intently watching him, their labored breathing nearly in perfect harmony. 

“Sherlock?” He said softly.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock matching the quiet tone as he continued to thrust his finger in…and out. 

“Will you fuck me, love…please.”  It wasn’t a plea so much as it was a gentle urging, a request for his lover to make him complete. 

Sherlock gave no word in reply, his answer coming in the form of another small squirt of lube, this time on his cock instead of his fingers.  He briefly broke eye contact with John as he guided his tip to find John and, easing himself in, found just the right angle so he could bury himself into the man that was always a part of him. 

As he made love to John, rhythmically pulling out and gliding back in, over and over, he watched John’s face, watched the rapture there that filled his heart with a love that was almost overwhelming.  Causing him to wonder what he had ever done to deserve the love of someone so good, so kind. 

Knowing the answer was ‘nothing’.

John’s thumb came up to Sherlock’s mouth, letting him wet it, tucking it in between the lips that started to suckle it.  His other hand went to stroke his own erection, and as their eyes locked, had they been asked, neither would have been able to say where one of them started and the other one ended. 

John came first, loud and fierce, Sherlock’s name on his lips.  Sherlock, his hips bucking as he tried to get closer and closer to John, finally allowed his own release, at last collapsing onto John in a heap, his breathing labored.

His head on John’s chest, he calmed, knowing he was exactly where he needed to be.  With John’s arms around him, he fell asleep listening to the strong, steady beat beneath him. 

* * *

 

Three days later John and Sherlock got married. 

They decided to have a simple ceremony in the flat.  It only made sense~ the flat was where they had become _them,_ and, more importantly, it would deter Mycroft from making it into an overblown affair that had caused so much consternation last time.  No flowers, no tuxes, no agents needed to guard the guests.  Just two men in the comfort of their own home committing their lives to each other. 

It was uncomplicated.  It was perfect. 

The only thing John had stood firm on was that Sherlock was to let Molly die his hair back to its natural color.  There was no way, _no way_ , he was going to look back on his wedding photos with a blonde Sherlock in them.  He also had to also assert to Sherlock, “there _will_ be pictures.” 

Molly, bless her, even managed to get a pair of scissors close enough to Sherlock’s head to tame a few errant curls; not too much though, John enjoyed the feel of his fingers in the unruly mop too much to allow for more than that.

Miraculously, Sherlock even agreed to go along with writing their own vows.  John thought he would never be able to pull that one off, but Sherlock agreed because he hadn’t liked the stuffy, generic vows they were going to say previously.  John wondered if he would actually come up with something to say, but he gave Sherlock space to do it as he wanted. 

“I think I have the ability to put a few words together into a sentence, John.  After all, I _did_ write a 500,000 word thesis at Uni.  In Latin”, he added triumphantly. 

“Alright, but just make sure it’s something I can understand, okay?”

Sherlock smiled and reassured him, “I will make sure you understand every word of it.”

* * *

 

Only four people were gathered in the small room to see the joining of the Consulting Detective and his blogger.  Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson served as witnesses, and Mycroft, with a pride he would never admit, was asked to officiate.

Sherlock and John stood in front of the fireplace, their hands clasped together symbolizing the new life that was about to begin.

“Sherlock, I….”

Looking up at Sherlock, he was suddenly transfixed by the face that meant everything to him.  The face he searched out first thing every morning, the face he dreamed of every night, the face he followed everywhere it went.

Sherlock stared at him expectantly, perplexed; _why_ wasn’t John talking?  Wasn’t that what this was about…talking, not just looking at each other?  “You _are_ going to say something, aren’t you?” he asked John.

John chuckled, “Patience, love.”

Sherlock’s impatience transformed into a tender smile as he bent towards John’s ear, saying softly, “Only for you, John, only for you.”

John smiled back.  He had written a nice set of vows, but now he wasn’t so sure.  What he really wanted to tell Sherlock was how much he meant to him.  How he would be willing to lay down his life for him, how life would be meaningless without him.  That this annoying, brilliant, beautiful man had saved his life. 

He decided to go ahead with what was in his heart.  “Sherlock, I didn’t know what I needed until I met you, what I truly wanted.  But you make everything in life sweeter, more exciting, just plain _happier_  than I could ever have imagined.  I have no idea what I can say or do to show you just what it is you are to me.  All I can promise is that I will do what I can every day of our lives to show you how much I love you, how much meaning you give to my life.”

“You are everything to me.  I love you, Sherlock.”  John didn’t think it was quite enough, but he didn’t think that to stand there repeating ‘I love you, I love you, I love you’ was too brilliant either.

Sherlock stood there, looking as if he was waiting for something more.

“Uhh, Sherlock, I’m done,” John said.  “Your turn, now.”

“My ring, John?”

“Oh, right!  How could I forget that?!”  He took the ring from Greg and slid it onto Sherlock’s finger.  There was a tightness in his chest as he stood there looking at it, finally back where it belonged.  His eyes met Sherlock’s, the love he saw there almost palpable.

Sherlock took a moment more to soak in the small blonde man in front of him before speaking.  This man, _this man,_ was about to become his husband.  It boggled his mind…and it wasn’t often that he was boggled.

“John, I know that you don’t often hear me tell you I love you and I know you deserve better than that.  It’s not that I’m afraid to say the words and by no means am I afraid to love you.  The reason I don’t tell you is that when I start to say them, all I can think is that those words, _any_ words cannot come close to explaining the depth of feeling I have for you, cannot begin to describe the importance you have in my life.  There are no words to explain how you have become a part of my DNA, that every cell of me carries a part of you.  You entered a life that I believed was a good one, and..” his hand flailed in frustration “…and showed me how wrong I was.  You came in to my life and loved me enough that I don’t have to give up anything to be with you.    _You_ showed me what love is and for that I can never repay you.”

He paused to let John absorb what he’d said; he knew he was talking too fast and he wanted to keep his promise to John that he would understand what he said.  Every bit of it.

“As your husband I promise to put you before everyone and everything else.  I promise to always, _always_ trust you.   I promise to…well, I promise to _try_ to keep the experiments on a different shelf than the food in the fridge.  I promise to love you every single day, but that’s clearly cheating because I have no choice in the matter.”

Sherlock took the second ring from Greg and put it on John’s finger.  He hadn’t told John, but he’d snuck it out of the flat to have it engraved, just as John had done for his.  ‘Take My Hand’, was what it now said.  He thought that when John found it someday, he would be pleased. 

He admired the band on John’s finger and rubbed it with his thumb, enjoying the feel of the way it now bonded them.  He leaned down to where John tilted his face up and kissed him.  Kissed him as if he was a man who had nearly drowned and been saved. 

Breaking the kiss, “I love you, John,” Sherlock breathed the words onto soft lips, feeling not at all hesitant, for he meant them.  As he always would.   

Sherlock’s mobile chose that moment to ring.  Instinctively, Sherlock reached for it in his jacket pocket, but seeing the startled look on John’s face, dropped it back in without looking to see who it was.  Anyway, Mycroft and Lestrade were both there, so if it wasn’t one of them it couldn’t be important. 

It only took John a moment to think things through before he told Sherlock, “It’s fine love, you answer it,” privately thinking, _really,_ they could they not get through one single ceremony without being interrupted?  Jesus.  But he had seen the spark of anticipation on Sherlock’s face as he wondered just what mystery was on the other end of that ring and couldn’t begrudge the one thing, well maybe the _second_ thing, that made Sherlock happy. 

“You’re more important, John.  _We’re_ more important, and we’re not done here, yet.”  Sherlock offered sincerely.

John looked over to Mycroft, indicating he should hurry things along, to which Mycroft graciously obliged.  “I now pronounce you married,” he said hurriedly.

Sherlock and John beamed at each other and kissed while the guests, in their relief and congratulations, warmly razzed them.

John tore his lips away, there would be time, a lot of time, for that later, “Now, who texted?  Go on, take a look.”

Sherlock dug his mobile back out and flicked the screen to get the message.  “It’s a text from the Prime Minister, he says there’s a matter he wants me to look into.” 

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed in resignation.  If Sherlock became ‘business partners’ with Cameron, he would become even more insufferable than he already was.

Sherlock texted a response, after which, very briefly, came an answering ping. “The Prime Minister asked me to come to his office.  If Convenient.”  He couldn’t help but look at Mycroft to offer a small snigger.  He knew that the Prime Minister was more than a little displeased at Mycroft after having involved his brother in a covert government mission.  To add insult to injury, the PM had then commended the detective and John for their heroic involvement. 

He could barely contain his excitement.  It was one thing to consult for Scotland Yard, but to consult for the head of the government?  The possibilities were far reaching.  Bigger, more intriguing cases! Criminals even more dangerous than the ones he was used to deducing!

Sherlock looked at John, his question hanging heavy in the air.

“Well, what are you waiting for?”  John prodded him, barely containing his pride that the Prime Minister, _the Prime Minister,_ wanted _his_  husband to consult with the British government. 

Sherlock quickly texted back and strode over to the coat rack.

As John followed him, he called back to the guests, “So sorry, have to dash.  Please do help yourself to the food and drinks; I hope you don’t mind seeing yourselves out.”

Sherlock handed John his jacket and put on his own coat.  Twisting his scarf around his neck, he smiled at John and asked, “Ready?”

“Oh god, yes!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the final chapter in the series. Bye bye my baby. Thank you SO much to you lovely readers for following along, you have made the experience a much more enriching one. Thank you especially to Burning_Up_A_Sun, sighing_selkie, and iseult1124, your frequent comments and encouragement mean more than you know...*Hugs*! I soon will post the first chapter in my next story Calico Skies. If you are so inclined, please go to my profile and subscribe so you can see when it comes out.  
> :-D


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